Battleflag
by pradaloz
Summary: A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path. (AU, WIP)
1. Prologue

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback to:** pradaloz00@yahoo.com  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.  


**Prologue**

Every day, it's the same old thing. 

At six a.m. the same old clock radio, set all the way across the room in a vain attempt to force yourself to get out of bed when it goes off, begins to blast the latest R&B hits, jolting you out of a warm fuzzy dream world. 

"Gooood morning, Hyrule Castle City! It's 34 chilly degrees out this winter morning, but we've got the best funk and soul music to get your blood pumpin'! This is Remi Marken, churnin' out the hits for you on WHRL's Big Bad Kokiri Breakfast Bash and here, for the first time ever on the airwaves, is the Indigo Go's brand new single, 'Fishin' for Your Love!'" 

Groggy, you fumble around your nightstand for the same old book that is always there and toss it in the same old direction at the damn radio. 

As usual, you miss. 

And, as usual, you have to get up. 

The same old face stares back at you from the mirror as you stumble into the bathroom to shower and shave. You aren't particularly displeased with it. In fact, you're rather pleased with the way you turned out. Dark blond hair, dark blue eyes, chisled features...they're fine by you. Good for picking up chicks. 

You finish your morning ablutions and return to your bedroom just in time to hear the morning traffic report. As always, the freeway's jammed from your entrance all the way in to downtown. 

_Five thousand tired, aggravated folks sitting in big heavy metal objects waiting fifteen minutes to go half a mile,_ you think. _No wonder we've got problems with road rage._ As a news reporter for the city's biggest newspaper, you get to hear about all of the pleasant things that Hyrulian commuters do to one another when cut off one too many times. You hope that you'll never make the front page of your own section as the victim of an angry tire-iron wielding motorist. It would be such a pathetic way to go. 

Banishing such early morning morbidity, you dig through your closet to find something that doesn't look too disreputable. Vaguely, in the back of your mind, you are aware that your editor said something to you the previous evening about an interview with some VIP. Of course, the little twerp told you about it before you went out with your sister and her husband to celebrate your alma mater's capture of the national football title. After several victory beers, it was hard to remember anything about your editor except that he was a short ugly bully who was, as always, jealous of your looks and talents. 

At last, you find a relatively clean shirt and pair of pants. You have your usual debate as to whether or not you ought to hunt for a jacket, but, as usual, decide that it's not worth the effort. A tie? Well, you've always believed that a man can express himself--in a non-conforming conformist kind of way--best through his tie. You grab the black one with the little dancing chili peppers because it's the one your editor hates. And so, decently--if not stunningly--clad, you head into the kitchen to find breakfast and your briefcase. 

With the same old kind of strawberry frosted breakfast pastry (the kind your sister keeps giving you disapproving, "Link-please-grow-up-and-eat-like-a-real- human-being" looks for) hanging out of one corner of your mouth, you pull on the same old worn raincoat while grabbing your keys and walking out the door. On your way down the dark hallway of your apartment building, you run into the same old bleary-eyed fellow tenants that you always pass in the hall at this time. 

The conversation goes as usual. 

"Mornin'," you say--or try to say--around your breakfast. 

Your neighbor, be it the short balding middle aged divorcŽ or the tall raven-haired florist (about whom you've had the passing inappropriate thought or two) usually mutters something similar in reply. You take the stairs, just as you have ever since you got stuck in the elevator on a hot summer night. It had happened on a weekend, so by the time the landlord heard you pounding on the walls of what you had begun to call the container of death and managed to find a repairman, you had almost dissolved into a puddle of sweat. 

After that, you vowed you would never, ever take the elevator again. 

You reach the bottom of the stairs and fling open the fire door, only to, as always, be assaulted by the sharp rays of the rising sun. Wiping the tears out of your eyes, you blindly walk the standard ten paces forward, then five paces to the right, which puts you at the spot where you always park your car. 

By now, your vision has cleared, and you are greeted by the sight of the good old rinky-dinky imported coupe you bought over a decade ago when gas was expensive and you were broke. And though it's treated you well over the years, you can't help but glower at it now for being the same gray, boring car it was back then. Of course, you realize, you're the same broke journalist you were back then, too. 

You climb in, start the engine, and try not to be too alarmed when it takes a lot of coaxing to get going. You also try to ignore the ominous clunk you hear whenever you shift gears. It's always been there, but it seems to have gotten louder of late. Your confidence that nothing out of the ordinary will happen, because nothing out of the ordinary ever happens to you, has kept you from going to the garage to have the cause of said clunk fixed. 

As always, you take the shortest route to the freeway and enjoy one thrilling moment of speed on the entrance ramp before slamming on the brakes as you hit the omnipresent traffic jam. 

You sit and mutter the same old complaints about traffic to yourself as you ever...so...slooowly...merge onto the express (ha ha) way. As you reach to turn on the radio, you notice that the clunk in the transmission has been joined by a strange rattling. 

But nothing will happen, you tell yourself. Nothing ever happens. 

And that's when something does. 

You see an opening, slam on the accelerator, and expect to zip into the hole left by the car next to you. Instead, you slam on the accelerator, the engine shrieks in agony, gasps futilely for one last breath, and dies. 

"SH--," your begin, but then you remember the deal you made with the goddesses and stop. You vowed one night that if your ex never called you again, you would give up with sailor-speak for good. So far, it's worked, and the last thing you want is her blubbering at you over the telephone line for a solid hour. And so, denied the emotional release of profanity, you merely grip the steering wheel, white knuckled with rage, as your car glides serenely off onto the shoulder. 

You take a moment to compose yourself, then get out, open up the hood, and try to inspect the damage. Standing there in the cold winter air, listening to the honks of the other commuters, you can't see anything wrong with the engine. Of course, you're no gearhead, so something pretty drastic would have had to have happened--say, a small explosion in the vicinity of the battery-- for you to notice anything wrong. 

You slam the hood back down and storm back to the open driver's side door, fumbling in your coat pocket for your cell phone so you can call for roadside assistance. But alas, your coat pocket is empty. So are your pants pockets. So, you discover after a thorough search, are the back seat, are the glove compartment, the floorboards, and the trunk. 

_No help for you, my man,_ your treacherous brain mocks you. _You're stuck here until a cop cruises by and feels generous enough to take pity on you._

Which means you'll miss your morning meeting with your editor. Which means you won't get the VIP interview assignment. Which means you won't get that promotion you've been hankering for and the pay raise you really, really need. Worst of all, it means that your editor, that obnoxious little snot, will have something to hang over your head for years. 

In sheer aggravation, you kick one of the tires. Unfortunately, you've angled your kick just right, and it sends the wheel cover flying into the air. It scrapes along the driver's side of the car, leaves a nice gash in the fading finish, and rebounds out into the oncoming traffic. 

Overcome, you forget your divine bargain and throw your head back to howl at the uncaring sky. "DIN DAMN IT!!!" 

It isn't until you're no longer blinded with rage that you see the car that's slowing down to pull over onto the shoulder beside you. 

Astonished that one of your equally disgruntled commuters seems to be interested in your plight, you gape at the car as it rolls to a stop. Your reporter's mind unconsciously records all of the details that describe the vehicle: luxury, imported, sleek black finish, sporty, dare we say "sexy"... the kind of machine you've always lusted after but never had a prayer of owning on a journalist's salary. 

You see your reflection in the lightly tinted glass of the passenger side window, see it suddenly decapitated as the window rolls down and the driver leans over. Again, as a trained investigator, you cannot help but take note of every feature of her face. Pale complexion, sleek blond hair cut at the jaw line, patrician features, designer sunglasses...dare we say "sexy?" 

"Need a ride?" she asks in a low, boarding-school inflected voice. 

And you know that nothing will ever be the same again. 

  
  



	2. Chapter One

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback to:**  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.

**Chapter One**

"Do you need a ride?"

The pointed tone of the repeated question jolted Link back to reality. "Huh? Uh, yes. Yes, I do." _Slick,_ he thought. _Very slick, big guy. You wanna try looking like you have at least part of a brain?_

He could not see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but he had the feeling that they were studying at the sad remains of his car. "I can take you to a garage to get a tow truck, if you like."

By now Link had composed himself. With his most charming grin, he replied, "I would like that very much."

The smile he got in return made the stereotypical beer-guzzling, football-watching, piggish male within him pump its fist in the air. "Then climb in," the woman said, pushing the passenger door open.

Silence descended as they pulled back onto the freeway, broken only by the sound of public radio coming from a car stereo Link would have killed several of his co-workers to possess. Lulled by the commentator's monotone and the heat coming from the car's vents, he closed his eyes and listened to a report on the latest terrorist attack.

_"...last week when an explosion ripped through a night club in downtown Kakariko, killing ten patrons and injuring seven others. No group has claimed responsibility for the attack as yet, but according to sources close the Minister of Justice, law enforcement officials are keeping a closer eye than ever on the GFF. Opposition party critics argue that this will only further antagonize the Freedom Front to no good end, for the nightclub in question was frequented by Zoras, a racial group with whom the GFF has had no previous problems..."_

"What do you think about that?"

Link started as the quiet voice interrupted his reverie. Turning his head to regard the woman beside him, he shrugged. "About the GFF or Justice? Who knows? I have to admit, the reporter in me is paranoid enough to suspect the Minister of deliberately pushing the GFF's buttons. But that could just be because conspiracy helps sell newspapers."

"It's possible," she allowed, still staring straight ahead at the road. "But then again, the Minister himself is Gerudo. Wouldn't he be uncomfortable with using members of his own race as scapegoats? Or could he be trying to distance himself?"

"Doubtless we'll never know," Link muttered. A sudden smile played across his face. "Tell me, do you do this often?"

The woman turned briefly to look at him. "Do what?"

"Pick up strange men along the side of the road and then quiz them about current events." As the faintest of blushes spread across her high cheekbones, he continued, "Not that I'm saying it's weird or anything. Just that it could get a little dangerous for a lady like yourself."

It was her turn to grin. "You looked safe enough. Besides, I've been in situations far more dangerous."

"Really?" His journalistic curiosity was piqued. And here he had her pegged for the kind who had spent her life in a safe little bubble of money.

Alas, she proved uninterested in continuing that conversation. "You said you are a reporter?"

Link chuckled. "Sometimes. Most of the time I'm just a sinkhole of society's resources...according to my editor, at least." That earned him an arched brow, prompting a clarification. "I work for the Tribune's news section."

She nodded, as if impressed. _As well she should be,_ he thought rather smugly. The Castle City Tribune was Hyrule's premiere newspaper. Getting on its staff was difficult and spoke well of the individual journalist's capabilities. "Have I seen your byline?"

"If you're into gang warfare, probably. I'm Link Kokirin." He extend a hand over the gearshift, which, he noted with approval, was manual. _So sue me, I think it's sexy to see a woman drive stick._

His chauffeur clasped his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Of Highland Bridge kickback fame?"

"You read it?"

She grinned at his false modesty. "Along with everyone else in Hyrule. Well," she continued, turning the radio down so it would be easier to talk. "I had no idea that I was picking up a prize-winning journalist." She gave him a sidelong look. "How much do you suppose your paper would pay for your safe return, if, say, you just happened to be taken hostage?"

"Well, I can't speak for the Trib as a corporate entity, but I know my editor would pay you to keep me. But, and please forgive me for being rude, it sure doesn't look like you need any more money." As she gave an embarrassed shrug, he added, "Not that I'd mind being kidnapped by a beautiful woman."

Well, well, well, he'd made her blush again. He certainly was on this morning. "But enough about me. What do you do?"

"I-" A shrill ringing interrupted her. They both instinctively reached into their coat pockets; her hand emerging with a cellular phone, his emerging empty. _That's right. My phone is...well, it's got to be somewhere_

"Hello?"

Where had he left it, anyway? The coffee table was a possibility. So was a pocket in another coat. Or, for that matter, anywhere on the floor of his apartment.

"Yes, I would hope so."

Of course, the phone could have fallen out of a pocket and be wedged behind a couch cushion. Or his mattress. _So I could've been sleeping with my cell, eh? Now that's a disturbing thought._ Link had a sudden vision of himself in one of those t.v. commercials praising the common man's ability to keep in touch with his office and do work while on vacation, in the shower, in bed... all thanks to the power of his cellular phone. It was, to say the least, a very disturbing vision.

But still, the little device had its uses, and life without it would be a pain in his fine behind until he got a replacement.

"I thought he wasn't scheduled until this afternoon."

Maybe he could talk a free one out of the Trib's tech support department. Yeah, the secretary there seemed to have a thing for him. A little sweet talk, a few of his patented charming smiles, and he'd be back in the digital world in no time.

"Yes, but I'm not certified to perform that procedure, and I will not trade my bypass for Engstrom's valve replacement just so he can go home early."

At that, Link's pointy ears perked up. His inquisitive nature-he preferred to refer it as such rather than as noseyness, thank you very much-refused to let him not eavesdrop. So his ride was a surgeon, eh? _Maybe that's why she wasn't worried about picking up a strange man-she's got enough experience cutting people up to know exactly how to get out of a bad situation._

He didn't know why this discovery surprised him. Then again, he reflected as he used her distraction as an opportunity to give her a good look, she ran against his image of surgeons as faceless old men in scrubs.

"Oh, I'm sure a malpractice suit would be so much less inconvenient than rescheduling his golf date. No, Angie, tell him that I've pulled him out of enough fires for one month. If he's got a problem with that, he needs to talk to me, not harass you."

With a snap of her wrist, the woman slapped the phone shut and met Link's eyes. "Do you have coworkers who try to get you to do all of their work for them, too?"

"No, usually I'm the one trying to fob work off on them."

She grinned at that, then returned her attention to the road.

The rest of the drive went by in silence. Slouched in his seat, Link thought he saw his chauffeur occasionally turn her head ever so slightly as if to study him, but with her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, he couldn't be sure. He tried to look impressive, just in case.

They soon arrived at the garage, and Link hopped out of the car. Walking around to the driver's side, he leaned against the open window. "I can't thank you enough."

She shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I know I would want someone to help me if I were in the same situation."

"Yeah, but it was still pretty decent of you. Look, how about I take you out to dinner some time to show my appreciation?" When she didn't respond right away, Link pulled out his most charming smile and added, "After all, no good deed should go unpunished."

He could actually see the little gears turning in her head as she studied him, obviously considering whether or not he had any ulterior motives. Her assessment must have been a positive one, because she smiled. "I'd like that."

"Great!" The word came out with more enthusiasm than he had intended. "I'll have my people call your people and synchronize our schedules."

She smiled again, nodded, and then her car was pulling away and out into the street, leaving him standing there in the middle of the garage parking lot, staring into the distance grinning like an idiot.

His good mood lasted until the moment he stepped into the bullpen on the third floor of the Tribune's building smack dab in the middle of downtown Castle City and saw two figures hovering over his desk. Despite the fact that it had taken an inordinate amount of time to explain his situation to the mechanic at the garage, then another inordinate amount of time to have his car towed in, and finally an even greater inordinate amount of time to have the mechanic examine the vehicle and say, "This may take a while," Link's spirits had remained high. Even the mechanic's initial estimate of how much the repairs would cost couldn't deflate his good mood. Even the death-defying taxi ride to the Trib's building couldn't deflate it.

But the sight of his editor, the doubtfully redoubtable J. Quigley Mido, lying in wait for him completely laid waste to it.

"Kokirin!" The short, pug-nosed man bellowed when he caught sight of the tardy reporter. "Where the hell have you been?"

_Calm. You will remain calm,_ Link told himself sternly. "Sorry, Mido. My car broke down on the trip in." He forced a sickly grin upon his face. "It took awhile to get it towed and diagnosed."

Evidently this explanation was not satisfactory. "You were supposed to be here three hours ago! We had a meeting scheduled! Or did you forget that?"

Peering down at the shorter man, Link tried to remind himself that he'd never be able to afford his car repairs if he lost his temper and got fired. "I didn't forget, Mido," he said very slowly. "My car broke down."

"Well, that's too damn bad for you," the little man snarled, brushing his slack brown hair out of his dull brown eyes. "I had to assign the interview with the Prime Minister to someone, and since you weren't there, you didn't get it."

_What?_

"Mido, you've been promising me that assignment for the past week."

Obviously pleased with himself, the editor's grin stretched from one end of his freckled face to the other. "Yeah, well, today was the day the assignments became official. And you weren't there," he repeated.

"My car broke down!"

"Well, now, don't worry." Folding his arms over his chest, Mido leaned back against Link's desk, the image of nonchalance. "We do have something for you. Features is a bit short of personnel this week, so-"

"FEATURES?" The word exploded from his lips before he could stop it.

Smirking at Link's indignant tone, Mido continued in a sly voice, "I believe they need someone to do a piece on the latest fashion trends in the Goron district."

Link was beside himself. "Mido, I'm a news reporter, not a features-fluffy- human-interest pansy! I don't do fashion! I do elections! I do plane crashes! I do important stuff!"

The smirk was replaced by a scowl. "If you thought it was that important, then you would have been at the meeting this morning, car or no car. But no, you think that just because you got a big break on the Highland Bridge scandal, you can sit back and pick your assignments." He stepped towards Link in what would have been a menacing manner, had not the difference in the two men's height and build made the scene comical.

"You may think you're Din's gift to this paper, Kokirin, but let me tell you, you're just as expendable as the rest of us." Shaking his finger at his reporter in an attempt to look authoritative, he added, "So you'd better shut up and do some good work for Features, or I'll see to it that you never get to cover 'real' news again!"

Still grumbling under his breath, the little editor stomped off in the direction of his office. It wasn't until he heard the glass door slam shut behind Mido that Link turned to the other person, the one who had watched the entire exchange in silence. "Thanks for sticking up for me, Kafei."

The purple-haired man shrugged. "It wouldn't have made a difference. Besides, I'm on the twerp's good side. Why should I ruin things for myself?"

"Loyalty to one's friends, perhaps?"

Completely unperturbed by his colleague's snide tone, Kafei strolled back to his own desk and began rummaging through the stacks of paper on it. "Look, Link, you've got to stop antagonizing Mido. I know he's an ass, but that ass is your boss. Farming you out to Features is the least he can do to you. And if there's worse, he'll do it. He loathes you, you know."

"Yeah, but why me?"

"Because you're smarter, more talented, and better looking than he is, and he's jealous. Anju swears it must be Short Man Syndrome. Bullying makes him feel bigger than he actually is."

"Well, it may make him feel big, but it makes him look like an ass," Link grumped, flopping down into his chair. "So, besides the fact that Mido's rearranging who's assigned to which sections, what else is new?"

"Not much. I still have to use your phone because my line's still scrambled and the phone company's stalling on fixing it. So I got to take some messages for you. Let's see," picking up a notepad from his desk, Kafei flipped to the appropriate page. "The cable company says that if they don't get your payment for last month's bill by tomorrow, they're taking away your pay-per-view. I told them you mailed the check yesterday."

"Great," Link muttered.

"Oh, and Saria called," the other reporter continued. "She wanted you to know that she's going to have to cancel dinner on Wednesday. Something about needing to fill in for someone at the Lost Woods convention." Tossing his notepad back onto his desk, Kafei leaned back in his chair. "I take it that means your little sister's still with Evergreen?"

"Fighting for the rights of the world's environment with a smile on her face and a song in her heart," Link confirmed. He was actually quite proud of his little sister-foster sister, really, since he had been adopted into her family-but he did sometimes wonder how she managed to live on the tiny salary the non-profit organization gave her. Then again, he was still alive and the Tribune was hardly showering him with rupees.

"Huh. Well, far be it from me to criticize someone for fighting for one's principles. Even if it is a losing cause. But to completely change the subject, where on Nayru's green earth were you this morning?"

"I told you," Link muttered as he rummaged through his desk drawers for his calendar. "My car died a horrible painful death. Right in the middle of the expressway."

Kafei winced. "Ouch. Bet that made the traffic reports."

"I doubt it; we made it over to the shoulder without incident. And then I was rescued."

"What, by someone tall, dark, and handsome?"

"No, actually." Settling back in his chair with a smug smile, Link propped his feet up on his desk and said, "I was rescued by someone female, beautiful, and rich as King Zora."

Kafei leaned forward to prop his elbows on his friend's desk. "Really? What was her name?"

Link opened his mouth, then shut it. Sudden horror flooded him, and he shot up in his seat. "I don't know. I forgot to ask! Shit!" Burying his face in his hands, he moaned, "How could I have been so stupid?"

The purple haired journalist sighed and gave his friend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Well, look at it this way. The day can only get better from here. Except-" and here he frowned, "-I thought you were trying to quit with the profanity. You know, that deal with the Goddesses: no bad words, no phone calls from the ex?"

"I was," Link moaned. "I blew that, too. Now my ex is going to be calling and crying and begging me to take her back and I'm going to be writing fashion articles for Features and the cable company's going to take away my pay-per-view and the lady who helped me this morning is thinking I'm a jerk and FUCK I blew it!"

Kafei opened his mouth to say something comforting, but was forestalled by the shrill ringing of the phone on Link's desk. Without lifting his head, the blond picked up the phone, and in a morose voice said, "Castle City Tribune newsroom..." He trailed off as the person on the other end identified herself, and raised his head so his dismayed blue eyes met Kafei's red ones.

"The Goddesses are punishing you," Kafei mouthed before returning to his own desk in time to hear Link say, "Yeah, hi, Malon."

* * *

There was something remarkably soothing about surgery. Barring the occasional mishap or unexpected complication, it progressed in a familiar rhythm, progressed at a preordained rate, followed a very carefully drawn map. Even beyond the comfort provided by the routine, the simple opening up of a man's body and peering inside was, in and of itself, reassuring. It provided a real-life model for one's own body, tangible proof of existence. It allowed the surgeon to think, _this is what I look like inside. This is how I work._

Or so it would, were Zelda anything like the patients that lay before her on her operating table.

_Like but unlike._

Sometimes she was able to forget the difference. Sometimes, she could look into the red maw of a man's open chest, and pretend that the heart beating within it was anything like her own.

_Similar in form and structure, of course._

That much was true.

_But created by vastly different means and for vastly different purposes._

As was that.

The thoughts chased themselves through her mind as she finished the final stitches that closed this patient's chest. Zelda let herself consider them for the briefest of seconds, then pushed them back into the depths of her unconscious, focusing solely on the job at hand. Once finished, she paused to admire her work.

"Perfect as always," came a deep voice from over her shoulder.

The young woman turned to behold a tall stocky man garbed, as was she, in light blue scrubs. "I had some very expert help," she said with a smile that was hidden by her surgical mask. She wondered if it was visible in her cool blue eyes.

"Yes, we do have an excellent team here," Zelda's fellow surgeon agreed congenially, waving for the nurses to prepare the patient for transfer to post-op. "Shall we scrub out?"

Zelda nodded silently and followed him through the doors out of the operating room. Watching the blood swirl into the sink as she washed off, the blond woman was suddenly struck with despair. Had the slightest thing gone wrong in the other room, she would now be washing a dead man's blood from her hands. The line between life and death was paper-thin, and she could so easily erase it.

Irritation replaced reflection with a white-hot flare. _Don't be ridiculous,_ she chided herself. _When was the last time you lost a patient? Can you even remember?_ Annoyed that she could have even wasted one moment brooding over something so foolish as a possibility that had not even happened, she marched away from the sink to where her locker stood. She flung it open, then asked over her shoulder, "Do you have any procedures scheduled for this afternoon, Tom?"

"Yeah, I'm taking that valve replacement of Engstrom's so he can make his tee time. Those of us not blessed with outstanding publishing credentials," and here he bowed in her direction, "live at the mercy of the Chief." He crossed to the other side of the room, where a similar locker with a "Tomas Berenbaum, PhD/MD" nameplate awaited him "So, tell me, Harkinian. Why are you still at City? Why not at a private hospital like Mercy? Nayru knows they'd be glad to have you, and you'd make more rupees than you'd know what to do with."

Zelda managed a grin as she untied the green kerchief she wore over her hair. "Because I already have more rupees than I know what to do with. And because I don't want to deal with pompous patients." Pulling a hairbrush out of her locker, she added, "I have to put up with enough of that kind at my father's dinner parties."

The older man chuckled and sauntered towards her. "Well, speaking of dinner..."

Before he could finish, Zelda held up a hand. "I already have lunch plans." _And even if I didn't, I certainly wouldn't accept your invitation,_ she thought coldly, meeting Tom's black eyes. _I know what you want._

Indeed. What he wanted was sitting right there on the top of his mind for her to see. She didn't even have to be on Oxin to sense it.

"Some other time, then," the dark haired surgeon offered and, upon receiving neither agreement nor disagreement in Zelda's gaze, left the room.

She watched the door swing shut behind him, then turned her attention to brushing her short blond hair.

_Why on earth,_ she asked herself, _is it so hard for men to just consider themselves friends or colleagues? Why do they have to assign themselves additional roles?_

Being a small, slightly built young woman in a profession full of older men was an invitation for them to either treat her as a daughter or a potential trophy wife. Patronizing or lustful, those were her choices. _Not that I'd mix business with pleasure, anyway. It would just be nice to be able to talk to someone without additional expectation or "issues" getting in the way._

But, she being who and what she was, that scenario was highly unlikely.

_Acceptance, my dear. It's all about acceptance._ Grabbing a garment bag from her locker, she shut it with a sharp click and glanced over at her image in the mirror across the room. _Hair? Decent. Makeup? Passable. Clothes? In hand._

Ten minutes later, decently garbed in a chic black pants suit, Zelda was ensconced at a table in a nearby caf. Surveying the menu, she wondered if she'd ever have the courage to tell her figure to go to hell and just order a twelve-ounce steak. _Medium rare,_ she thought with relish, _nice and bloody._ But today would not be the day, and when the waitress came to take her order, the doctor in her forced her to ask for thehouse salad. Dressing on the side.

_Wimp._

Disgruntled, she slouched back in her chair, grabbing the newspaper she had carried in with her. A quick survey of the headlines brought no satisfaction: "Stocks Rise for 100th Day in a Row." "Castle City Mayor Calls for a 'New Age of Understanding.'" "Minister Dragmire Promises Extended Surveillance of the GFF."

The last made her chuckle.

Scanning the article, she saw none of the conspiracy-theory leanings that her impromptu passenger this morning had referred to. Evidently, the public was not as wary as perhaps it ought to be. Not that the Gerudo Freedom Front was the real threat. _Goddesses,_ she thought, idly playing with her napkin. _They have no idea what's going on._ She gazed out across the dining room, seeing friends meeting for a quick lunch, business partners conducting informal negotiations, lonely professionals dining alone. There were so many people living in this city, in this country.

And not one of them knew.

_They look at me, and they think I am normal, like them. That I came into this world the same way they did. They have no idea what sits amongst them._

She wondered what it would be like to live like that, in blissful ignorance. As blessedly normal.

Too bad that, if she had her way, blissful ignorance would be a thing of the past.

A word from the front page suddenly caught her eye: Exposure.

Now there was an idea. Slouching back into her seat, Zelda considered the possibility, tossing it from one side of her brain to the other. It could work. Perhaps exposure was the only thing that would work. Humiliate the men involved. Take away their power. It could all be done by bringing the facts to light. And now that she'd met someone with the means to do so...

_I wonder-_

A shadow fell over her, blocking the light. Zelda looked up into the depths of the darkness, meeting a pair of fiery crimson eyes, and felt her lips quirk in a sly smile. "I was wondering if I would see you today," she said as the black haired figure settled in beside her.

"Really," he said with a chuckle that sent grudging chills up her spine. "And why is that?"

Returning his leer with a feline grin of her own, she said, "Because I met your better half this morning."


	3. Chapter Two

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback to:**  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.

**Chapter Two**

Of course he wasn't surprised to hear it. Or if he was, he didn't let it show. Not that it mattered to her; Zelda had learned many years ago that he would never admit to surprise. He valued his carefully cultivated aura of cunning omniscience too much to ever let it appear undone. So why waste the energy trying?

"Really. Nice boy, isn't he?" was all he said as he leaned back into his chair, casually wrapping an arm around its high back. "Rather boring in that regard, don't you think?"

"But you think everyone is boring, don't you, Dark?"

"Alas, it's true," he agreed as a waitress materialized at his shoulder. He shot the girl a wolfish smile before sending her on her way with his order. "I am destined to die alone, misunderstood, and very, very bored."

"Even after knowing me?"

He chuckled, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the tabletop. "Especially after knowing you. You're perfect, remember? That makes you boring by definition."

Zelda mimicked his position, bringing them nose to nose. "And here I thought you knew everything," she murmured. "The experiment was a complete failure; I'm wrought with flaws."

He snorted and slouched back. "Well. So much for genius and scientific breakthrough, then." With a sudden flash of white teeth, he grabbed his water glass and saluted her. "Here's to failure."

"To failure," she echoed, returning the toast. They drank, contemplating one another over the rims of their glasses. _Who are we today?_ Zelda wondered as she studied her companion's face. Given the wild yet still sane gleam in the red eyes and the sly twist of the smooth lips, she was dealing with the Only Slightly Unhinged version. She suppressed a relieved sigh. After this morning's shock, she doubted she had the strength to deal with the Criminally Insane version.

It had been unsettling, to say the least, to see Dark's face on another man. And yet, she mused as she leaned back in her chair, for all its similarities, this morning's version had been quite different. While both copies had the same features-the strong jaw, the noble profile, the large eyes-they could not have had more different expressions. There had been a certain softness, a subtle calmness about the other that was the antithesis of Dark's edgy brilliance. But then again, that was only to be expected. The latter was the failed half of the experiment. He was the proof that one could engineer a man without a conscience. The former was merely the control. _So perhaps what the greeting cards say is true. What we are inside affects what we are outside._ Zelda bit her lip against a rueful smile. _I wonder how that affects me._

Her companion had noticed her scrutiny. "So thoughtful today," he purred. "Tell me, pretty thing, what's going on in your head?"

"I'm wondering why you're here," she lied.

"I have some messages. Some things to deliver." Rummaging around in one of the pockets of his leather jacket, he added, "Which you should have expected." Dark withdrew his hand, tossing the plastic bottle in it across the table. Startled, Zelda raised her hands just in time to catch it. "Surely you noticed that you were getting a little low?"

She clenched her hands around the bottle and did not deign to reply.

When he realized that she was not going to respond, Dark shrugged and continued, "It comes with Dragmire's regards. He wants to meet with you sometime soon. Something about getting sick of asking your father how you're doing and getting 'I don't care' for an answer. Just between you and me," he added, leaning forward as if they were co-conspirators in some grand scheme, "I'm surprised he's got the time to arrange little get-togethers, what with all of the projects he's got going on these days."

The subtle emphasis on one word made Zelda's mind race. _Projects?_ "Really? I would think his position would be more than enough to keep him busy."

"Nah, you know the big man. Always wanting to be in charge, always wanting more. A little research funding here, a little political maneuvering there... Add in visits with his best buddies and their daughters, and you've got one busy guy. So, what do you say?" From the brilliant light in his eyes, she could tell he was asking neither about the proposed visit or the Minister of Justice's social schedule.

"I say it's nice to know that Dragmire has you gainfully employed as his message boy."

He placed a slender hand over his heart and bowed his head in homage. "That's me, E. K. Kazuo, courier to the rich and powerful."

"Oh, is that what you're calling yourself these days?" Zelda asked with an arched brow. It never failed to amuse her how her companion changed names the way some women changed hairstyles. _Of course,_ she thought as she studied his blood red eyes, _in his line of business it's probably necessary. I'm sure it's handy for someone like him to have a never-ending supply of aliases._ It didn't particularly matter to her what he called himself; to her, he would always be "Dark." For he was the only person in the world whose mind was not open to her. _No. Not the only. Not anymore._

"It's a good interim moniker," he replied. "It brings to mind thoughts of an old family name, one attached to an old family business, don't you think?"

"Hmm, yes. An old family courier business."

"Ah, what a lovely segue into my next item of business: family." Shooting her a grin, he said, "The Judge wants to make sure you'll be at the benefit concert tonight."

"You're delivering messages for my father as well?" He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before anything could come out. "I'll be there. It's for my hospital, after all." Even though she knew full well scowling made her look like a sulky child, she couldn't keep herself from doing so as she added, "Din, I hate those things."

He snorted. "You're the worst liar I know. The fine wine, the fancy clothes-you're in love with the finer things in life and you know it."

"Then let me amend: I hate those things when the Judge is there."

"Oh, poor little rich girl. You want me to come by later and cheer you up?"

"No."

Dark tsked and shook his head. "So cold. You'll break my heartor would," he added in a mock-thoughtful tone, "if I had one."

His laugh sent shivers up her spine. Seeking to distract herself from thoughts of him and the coming evening, Zelda turned her attention to the paper she had come in with. "I see the GFF's making headlines again."

Dark beamed, taking the change of subject in stride. "You've got to admire their ability to make a clear statement. 'We hate Hyrule.'"

"They needn't blow people up to do so."

"No, but it works. For the bombers, anyway. And they know they won't get caught, since the only thing the cops seem capable of spotting these days are big hairy monsters." He returned Zelda's surprised look with smug one of his own.

"The cops are looking for terrorists and finding boogiemen instead?"

"Big hairy boogiemen. You know what they say about flushing pet fish and rodents down the toiletthey mutate in the sewers and go on a rampage."

Zelda shook her head. "So what does the Minister of Justice think about justice being sidetracked by urban legends?"

"He finds it endlessly entertaining. Besides, you and I and he all know that mutant rodents aren't outside the realm of possibility these days." He lifted a knife from the tabletop and began twirling it through his fingers. "Did you know," he continued too casually, "That Dragmire and the Judge have been in particularly close contact lately, them and the rest of the old gang?"

"Are you implying that the boogiemen have something to do with Dragmire's influx of projects?"

The question won her an approving smile. "Very good," he drawled. "I always knew you were the smartest of us."

"I was supposed to be," she snapped around the bile that rose in her throat. "That was the 'old gang's' plan, remember?"

"Really? I thought the plan was Deku's alone and the others were just along for the ride."

"He couldn't have done it without the Judge's money or Dragmire's support."

"True," he allowed. "But without him, there wouldn't have been any work." Crimson eyes gleaming, he added, "He was a genius."

"He was a genius," she agreed as the image of a man ten years dead rose up from the depths of her memory. She could still picture him as clearly as if he were standing before her: an immensely tall, immensely thick man, possessing shrewd black eyes and a bushy moustache. She could still remember his kindly, perverse-yet understandable-paternal attitude towards herself and Dark, evident in every action he took and everything he said. And she could still remember his last words to her. "My finest work," he had said, hands outstretched as if in benediction. How proud he had looked.

How possessive.

She might have been able to bear it, had she been unable to see into his mind. Had it not been for his horrifying, humiliating gift, she would never have known the truth. Had it not been for her unique ability, she would never have known his thoughts and so he would have remained merely an odd sort of father. But Deku had made her the way she was, and because of it, she could read right into the tangled web of brilliance that was his brain and see one word, one thought, one sense that repeated over and over surrounding the image of her within: _Mine._

And in that moment, Zelda had hated him with a passion she had never before felt for anyone or anything. Even now, sitting in the cool restaurant, the memory of her rage heated her blood. She could remember staring at the huge man as he smiled down upon her, feeling something white and hot and powerful burst to life within the center of her soul and flare out to engulf her entire body. No possession could have been more powerful, or more deadly.

She dragged herself out of the blinding haze of memory and glared at her companion. "Deku is dead."

"Is that a 'good riddance' I detect in your tone?" When Zelda refused to rise to the bait, he shrugged. "You're right, of course. He's dead." His eyes danced, but whatever snide remark he had in mind was forestalled by the return of the pretty young waitress and their food.

They ate in silence. As usual, he tore into his sandwich viciously, while she poked at half of her salad, the conversation having deprived her of her appetite. Only the sure knowledge that low blood sugar made her scalpel-wielding hands shaky compelled her choke anything down. Staring down at her plate, she could feel crimson eyes studying her, but whatever they saw was not revealed.

It was not until they had exited the caf and were walking down the busy sidewalk in the thin winter air that another word was spoken.

"So. Will you be seeing him again?"

Zelda glanced up at his face. It was expressionless, looking out into the street, eyes darting from car to car. His mind was, as always, invisible to her. Even so, she knew to whom he referred. "Perhaps."

"Hmm." He stopped and turned to her. "Well. First you don't want me to come see you tonight, then you tell me you might be seeing my better half." Chuckling, he leaned forward so his face was a breath away from hers. His red eyes sparkled with a strange light. "I might have to get jealous. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Cold blue eyes met smoldering red ones. "As if you could know the feeling," she scoffed.

The amusement in his gaze belied the hurt expression on his face. "I have feelings," he breathed. "Just not the ones you or your little nanny approved of."

Idiotic to let him get to her like that, yet she couldn't help but spit out, "There's nothing little about Impa."

"True, true. I misspoke." Stepping back, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Here, have a cancer stick. It'll calm you down." With a predatory look in his crimson eyes and a singsong note in his voice, he added, "You know you want it."

It was true, and the truth infuriated her. Wordlessly, she snatched the cigarette from his hand, telling herself to ignore his satisfied smirk. Instinct guided her hand into the depths of her coat pocket to find her old silver lighter. "Old habits die hard," Dark observed as she lit up.

"Shut up," she hissed. "Shut up and go away."

"Your wish is my command," he said, then bowed, tossed her a mocking salute, and vanished down the sidewalk.

Taking a long drag on the cigarette, Zelda leaned her head back against the building and closed her eyes. The brick was rough and warm against her hair, and she could feel its heat soak into her cold body. She exhaled slowly, letting smoke scorch her nose and throat.

Boogiemen, urban legends, the old gang getting back together again. Had Dark been insinuating that those things were tied together? Of course he had. Insinuation was his stock and trade. Could they truly be? She had known the knowledge was there, that Deku had left some of it behind, and she had thought its existence was danger enough. But now it seemed that even though the man was dead, the work was not.

_Boogiemen?_

It would be a clumsy version of the work, but still the work.

_Goddesses._

And again, because once didn't seem like enough, _Goddesses._

She opened her eyes and watched the white smoke from the cigarette curl into the air and vanish.

* * *

"'...in other industry related news, last night the divine diva LuLu of the Indigo-Gos was spotted at Jabu-Jabu's Underbelly, nightclub of the stars...' blah, blah, blah, '...her footwear screamed 'Retro-Gerudo,' a style this reporter would rather slit her wrists than-'"

"Link, for the last time, will you stop reading that? Some of us are trying to work."

Dark blue eyes peeked up over the top edge of the paper Link held out before himself. "So am I. I'm researching my next assignment. Now, if you'll excuse me...'Midigoron has gone mega-Goron-nouveau with his latest-'"

"Then do it quietly! Or better yet," Leaning across his desk, Kafei swiped the paper from his friend's hands. "Just stop." The purple-haired man balled the section up and tossed it into the trash. "It's impossible to listen to this infernal machine when I've got someone giving a dramatic reading of 'Seen and Heard' right behind me."

Link wasted no time mourning his lost paper. Instead, his blue eyes lit up, and he glanced at the contraption sitting on Kafei's desk. "You're listening to the Infernal Machine?" Before his friend could answer, Link rolled over in his chair so the two were side by side. "Anything good?"

With an exasperated sigh and a well-placed shove, Kafei sent the other man rolling back the way he came. "Go away, Features-boy. The police beat's mine."

"'Features-boy?' You wound me, Kafei, you wound me."

They glared at each other for a few moments. When he realized that his I-am-reporter-watch-me-slander-your-ass expression would not work on another journalist and that his pitiful-puppy-dog look would not work on another man, Link shrugged and turned away. "Okay, okay." He rolled his chair back to his computer. "I've got a piece I need to finish anyway." He heard Kafei make a disgusted sound and begin rummaging through papers.

Five minutes later and halfway through an expos of a national burger chain, a sigh drifted over Link's shoulder, followed by Kafei's voice. "All right. Fine. But," the purple-haired man added as Link spun around in his chair with a grin, "only because I need to complain to someone."

Complaints were better than dealing with Features. Anything was better than dealing with Features. "Let's hear it."

"Monsters."

"Monsters?" Link frowned. "Like the ones on the cover of the Tattler?"

"None other than." Shaking his head, Kafei rolled his red eyes in exasperation. "The police are starting to report seeing them now. Let me tell you, the announcements coming in over the scanner here are weird. I mean, I hear these cops and they sound as if they can't believe what they've seen, but they can't believe it was anything else."

Mind racing at the possibilities of the police force suffering from massive delusions, Link asked the questions nearest and dearest to his little journalistic heart. "What? Where? When?"

"Oh, in back alleys at night. Most of the reports run the same way; an officer's checking out some suspicious activity, looks around, and sees the silhouette of a seven-foot beast lurking in the shadows. With a dog's head." Kafei's kind face screwed up in a wince. "Dog heads. Can you believe it?" Propping his chin in his hand, he continued, "And the kicker is, as the police reporter, I really ought to cover it. Buthow in Farore's name am I supposed write a serious article about cops seeing big dog monsters?"

"Easy. 'Dog Men in the Night: Castle City beset by Carnivorous Canine Creatures.'"

Kafei lifted his head and shot Link a look of pure disgust. "And you write for a living?"

The blond shrugged. "I flunked out of econ. What else was I supposed to do with myself?"

"Trash collection?"

"No, that's what I'll be doing now that I've been assigned to Features."

"Which you deserve, in my humble opinion."

Shooting Kafei a disgusted look, Link retorted, "Your humble opinion can go screw itself. Just because you get all of the good assignments-"

"'Good?' You got Highland Bridge. I get Dog-men. Excuse me if I don't see the basis for your complaint."

Link opened his mouth to defend his Features-inspired despair but was interrupted by a shrill voice. "KOKIRIN!"

"Patience," Kafei mouthed, turning back to the police scanner and his notes as Mido stormed up.

Looking up at the fireplug made flesh, Link swallowed his pride and asked, "Yes?"

"Get up, Kokirin," the editor snapped, fists planted on his hips. "The Big Man wants to see you."

Link's dark blue eyes blinked. "Darunia?" What on Hyrule would the editor- in-chief want with a local news reporter? _Now now,_ his ego piped up. _Not just any reporter-the reporter who got the Trib Highland Bridge._ True.

_Yeah, true,_ his rational side interjected, _but that was a year ago. It's old news. What have you done for the ed lately?_ Not much.

Apparently, Mido was thinking along the same lines for the next thing he said was, "I have no idea why, but I suggest you get up there now."

"Then I suppose I'd better go."

Five minutes and one aggravating elevator ride later-did the damn thing really have to stop at each floor on its way up from three to fifteen?- Link found himself being ushered into the editor-in-chief's office by the Big Man's secretary. The Big Man himself was ensconced behind a massive desk with an excited gleam in his black eyes. "Mr. Kokirin! How are you? Keeping that Golden Quill statuette polished?"

"Well, sir I-"

"Excellent! I hear you're on temporary assignment to Features these days. What could be better? I've got a personal assignment just for you that I think you'll like."

Unsure if that was a good or a bad thing, Link tried to reply, "That sounds-"

"You, my boy, are going to the City Symphony's benefit concert to mingle with the rich and beautiful."

Link blinked. "You want me to cover a benefit concert? But-"

"Cover! By Farore, man, why would I want you to do that? No, no, no! I need someone to represent the Trib there. I've got a meeting with Board, and we need a corporate representative, someone well known, someone with a reputation, an award-winning Golden Boy. And don't look so upset-these things aren't that hard, not hard at all. Just dress up nicely in a suit." Flat features rearranged themselves into a concerned frown as the editor's gaze took in his reporter's rumpled shirt and dancing chili peppers tie. "You do have a suit, don't you?"

More than a little offended on behalf of the chili peppers, Link said, "Of course I do." Somewhere. "But, sir, I-"

"Most of the government will be there," the big Goron interrupted. "I'm sure you'll be able to sniff out a news story." He let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "In fact, with such an assembly, I wouldn't be surprised if you end up with more excitement than you want. I doubt the GFF will be able to resist such a target."

Link winced. Dying young in the quest to reveal the truth of the government to the masses was one thing. Dying young in the quest to represent the Tribune at a Very Special Symphony was quite another. Especially at the hands of the Gerudo Freedom Front. "Who?" he asked, trying to distract himself from visions of bombed-out concert halls.

"Oh, the usual assortment of characters, the rich, the powerful, and the merely beautiful. The ones I need you to mingle with are the political ones, keep our sources happy. The Ministers of Finance, Labor, and Justice. The Prime Minister. Former PM Harkinian."

Link nodded, placing faces to the titles. The event would be an assemblage of the currently and previously powerful. Although, considering that Harkinian had fostered the political careers of most of the former, the man could hardly be considered one of the latter.

"-members of both house of Parliament-"

Now, why, Link mused, as the editor continued to count off the concert's guest list on his fingers, was the former PM's name tugging at the edge of his mind?

"-but most importantly, Representative Nabooru will be on hand," Darunia was saying as Link tuned back into reality. " If you can't get something out of her interaction with Dragmire and Harkinian, you aren't half the investigator you're supposed to be."

Wait one moment. "But sir, I thought I wasn't there to-"

"Oh, ho!" The Goron rubbed his hands together gleefully. His black eyes held a mischievous glint. "That's the beauty of it. You'll be there as our representative in more ways than one. There's just no reason to tell them that."

Oh, ho indeed. The old man really was as sly as his reputation held. Not that the VIPs would be so nave as to assume a journalist was harmless under any circumstances, but still. In principle, it was a very underhanded plot.

"As I said, with Representative Nabooru there, you'll have plenty to sniff out. After all, she claims she's not supporting the GFF, but she hasn't been making the kind of speeches that Dragmire has so there's rampant speculations about her degree of dissociation, which, of course, the Tribune will investigate and be the first to report upon." The editor- in-chief paused, and beamed at the Hylian before him. "Just as we were with the Highland Bridge kickbacks."

"Yes."

"Excellent! Well," the Goron said as he clambered to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I've got a meeting with the ombudsman. Have a good time tonight!"

"Thank you sir," Link replied as he headed for the door. "I-"

"And don't forget about the suit!" And with that, Darunia clapped his reporter so hard on the back that the poor fellow stumbled out into the hallway.

By the time Link had recovered his balance and turned back around, the door to the editor's office had been slammed shut. "-appreciate it."

* * *

Eight hours later, Link was lounging against one of the marble pillars in the red-carpeted grand foyer of the Castle City Concert Hall, watching the rich and powerful mingle. The evening's festivities had yet to begin, and he was content to nurse his drink and observe from afar. Darunia hadn't been kidding when he'd said that everyone would be there; so far, Link's mental attendance list ran like a Who's Who in Hyrule.

Not a few feet from where he stood was none other than Prime Minister Rauru, looking as grim in person as he did on television and muttering about agricultural subsidies to a harried-looking aide. Apparently, the budget yielded to no man and no man's night at the symphony. A ways down the foyer, next to the wet bar by the glass-paneled doors leading to the terrace, stood music mogul King Zora and the svelte heir to his millions, his daughter Ruto. At the base of the stairs leading into the auditorium was a group of Gerudo women clustered around Representative Nabooru. The Representative was alternating between chatting with her groupies and shooting disgusted looks in the direction of the oblivious PM.

Now that was interesting.

Link decided that this would be a good time to thank the Gerudo woman for the nice letter of commendation she had sent him after Highland Bridge. Maybe, if he steered the conversation in the right direction, he would be able-

"I should warn you about the chardonnay," a low voice interrupted his scheming. "It's appalling."

Startled, Link turned to behold his nameless rescuer from the morning, looking cool and composed in black and diamonds. Her blond hair shone in the light of the chandeliers, but her blue eyes were oddly shadowed. Even more interesting.

Filing that observation away for future reference, Link smiled and held up his glass of scotch. "Thanks for the warning, but I'm set. But if I hadn't been, I bet that your advice would have saved me once again."

"No doubt. It's beyond appalling."

"And, once again, you would have been my hero. Heroine? Personage of heroic demeanor? What's the acceptable p.c. designation these days?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Smiling, she raised her glass to her lips, took a sip, and made a face. "Let me expand that warning to the merlot, as well."

"I'll just avoid wine altogether, then. But seriously," he continued, though his expression was anything but serious, "I have to know what to call you. Do you have a name, or would you just prefer 'My Hero'?"

"'My Hero' would be acceptable, but so would my name." She extended a well-manicured hand to shake his with a surprisingly firm grip. "Zelda Harkinian."

Oh.

Well, then.

No wonder the name 'Harkinian' had sounded so familiar earlier today.

_Din damn it._

"Zelda Harkinian? Oh, of course. Wonderful. I get picked up by a VIP, brag about my considerable investigative skills to her, and never manage to figure out who she is." He sighed. "So much for making a good impression."

Her shrug was so fluid that the evil knife of humiliation twisted yet again in his gut. _Congratulations, Link my man,_ a nasty little voice whispered in his head, _a woman with shoulders like that and already you've lost your chance._

"How would you know," she was saying as he was mentally kicking himself, "unless you could read minds?" She paused, and gave him a penetrating look. "_Can_ you read minds?"

Link snorted. "If I could, I'd have known that my ex was looking for a marriage prospect when I met her and saved myself a lot of trouble."

Instead of replying, she stared at him just long enough for him to wonder what she was thinking, but not long enough to make him uncomfortable. At last, she smiled and asked, "I suppose that's true. So, are you here to cover the event?"

"Well, I did just get temporarily bounced to the Features section, but no, tonight I'm here to provide a pretty face for the Tribune."

"And succeeding quite admirably," Zelda said, then laughed as he bowed. "I'm sure you recognize most everyone else who is here tonight, but would you like for me to introduce you to anyone in particular?"

He shot her his most charming smile. "Would you?"

"I would."

"Sure you wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen with a-what did your father call us press types?-'blood-sucking leech on the body politic'?"

Tilting her head to the side, Zelda winked and replied, "Haven't you heard about the daughters of wealthy and famous men? We love to shock our fathers by parading around with disreputable characters. Though," and here she gave him a slow once-over, "you don't look nearly disreputable enough to pass muster."

"Would it make you feel better if I told you the tux was a rental?"

"Much. Now I don't have to be ashamed to be ashamed to be seen with you. Shall we?" she offered her arm.

He took it. "We should."

They wove their way through the crowd, and Link had to admit that, for someone relatively short, Zelda was quite adept at getting other people to move out of the way for her without seeming to do so. Her hand was light on his arm, and he was hard pressed not stare at the way her golden hair brushed against the smooth skin of her neck.

"I have always," he said as they strolled, "wanted to meet the redoubtable representative Nabooru."

"'Redoubtable'? She'll be glad to hear you think so." She steered him toward the small cluster of Gerudo. There were four, all gathered around a tall woman swathed in a gorgeous bronze gown a shade lighter than her skin. The woman looked up as the two approached, and a friendly grin split her tanned face. "Ah, Zelda, how are you?" Spotting Link she added, "I see you're keeping attractive company these days."

"I do my best," Zelda replied loftily. "Representative, this is Link Kokirin from the Castle City Tribune."

She gestured to Link who smiled and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Your Honor. You sent me a nice letter after the Highland Bridge story broke, and I just wanted to thank you for that."

"No thanks necessary. It was good work, you know, and I do owe you for it. After all, it was my constituency that was getting screwed by those bastards." She gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "I owe you one, kid."

The reporter shrugged. "All in a days work. I live to serve the little guy."

"Don't we all?" Chuckling when she caught his skeptical look she added, "that's why I went into politics, kid. To make a difference. You may not believe it, but that's the way it was for me." Her eyes slid in the direction of the rotund Prime Minister. "That's the way it is for more of us than you think."

Beside him, Zelda let out a little huff. "Of course, personal gain and love of power had nothing to do with it."

"Well, now, we can't all be perfect, can we?" Nabooru grinned. "I'll just ignore the little insult there, seeing as how I know where you're coming from, what with growing up aroundcertain men. The Sand Goddess only knows who-or what-they're bank-rolling with these days. But," she drawled, shooting Link a sly look. "I suppose I shouldn't say such things in front of the press."

"Don't worry, you're off the record." But he would remember that remark and do a little digging later.

"Splendid," the Gerudo replied, and from the wicked gleam in her golden eyes, Link could tell that she wanted him to do that digging.

Just then, the chimes began to sound, calling the attendees to their seats. Nabooru gestured to her staffers. "Come, ladies, they're playing our song." With a nod to Link and Zelda, she said, "Nice seeing the two of you. Mr. Kokirin, I'll remember to give you a call whenever I want something leaked, but you have to promise to come get the tip in person so I can see that cute little face of yours."

Link saluted her with his long-empty glass. "Will do."

With a wink, the Gerudo led her entourage into the auditorium. Link moved to follow, but Zelda's hand on his arm restrained him until most of the crowd had streamed into the concert hall, leaving the two of them alone in the foyer. He gave her a questioning look. "Shall we head in?"

"You can," she said. "I have to check the donations list so I can make a little thank-you speech during the intermission. Besides, I have heard all of Pacini's concertos multiple times. I think I can stand to miss a few tonight."

While Link was able to appreciate-and even sometimes enjoy-classical music, he was no aficionado. And given the choice between sitting through an hour's worth of it and spending an hour with a beautiful woman, well, that just wasn't a choice at all. So he said, "I've never been a fan, myself. Would you like to get some air?"

"I could be cajoled to do so."

"You could, but would you?"

"Probably not. I'll go without any cajoling."

"Excellent, because I always hate to have to resort to cajoling. It wears me out."

"Poor boy." She let him hold the door open for her as they exited to the t errace. The winter air was crisp and sent shivers down his spine as they crossed the flagstones to stand against the marble railing. Behind them lay the bulk of the concert hall and the rest of the city. Below them wound the silver serpent of Zora's river and the vast expanse of Hyrule Field-the small part that hadn't yet been developed, that is.

"Kind of sad, isn't it?" Link asked. "To think that all of the countryside's going to be covered with track housing in a few years." He had been treated to more than one of his sister's tirades on the subject and had to agree with her that the thought of the entire Field becoming one big parking lot was rather sickening.

"Hmm. Yes." Absently, she opened her bag and withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

More and more interesting details. _Now why,_ he wondered as she lit up, _would a doctor bother with cancer sticks?_

Zelda caught his puzzled look as she put her lighter away. "Do you mind?" she asked, gesturing towards the glowing cigarette.

Link shook his head emphatically, telling himself that blushing like a fourteen-year-old would not win any points with this woman. "No, not at all. Ah...go right ahead."

"Because if you do mind, it won't be a-"

"No!" She blinked and he winced at the inadvertent force behind the words. "No. That's fine. I was just surprised..." He trailed off and waved his hands vaguely.

"Ah," she said, then leaned back against the terrace railing. Bringing the cigarette to her lips, she studied him with calculating eyes. "You're wondering why a doctor would indulge in so vile a habit."

"Well..." Deciding that honesty would probably be the best policy, he admitted, "Yeah."

Her eyes went from measuring to amused. "Call it a holdover from a pathetic attempt at adolescent rebellion."

With a grin, he leaned forward against the railing. "You've lived a sheltered life if smoking's the most pathetic rebellion you ever went for. Next time around, try hotwiring your folks' car to go buy a six pack using a blatantly false id, only to get stopped by the cops for running a stop sign and busted for driving without a license. Now _that_ is pathetic."

"You're right; it is. How much trouble did you get into?"

He chuckled at the memory. "Enough."

"Meaning?"

"Well, Dad said something about returning me to the adoption agency."

Turning, she met his eyes with a calmly assessing gaze. The tip of her cigarette burned a brilliant red in the darkness. "You were adopted."

"I was indeed, when I was about yea big." He held his hands about a foot apart. "Have no idea who my blood parents are."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" he asked, although he was hardly surprised by the comment. He got it all the time, and it never ceased to puzzle him. "My folks are great people; I've had a great life."

"That's true." She smiled a tad wistfully. "There's nothing that says blood relatives are necessarily any better. My father only paid attention to me until I turned fifteen and he realized that I wasn't everything he had hoped I'd be."

"Aw, poor little rich girl," Link teased, and instantly regretted it when she stiffened. "Sorry," he said quickly and shot her an apologetic smile. "I have a buddy who likes to say that I don't _mean_ to be a bastard-it just happens naturally." Leaning in close to her, he added in a conspiratorial tone, "Don't tell anyone I admitted it, but I think he's right."

"No, you're right; it's all too easy to wallow in self pity when you're not busy trying to keep yourself clothed and fed. Navel-gazing is a luxury."

"Still, it was a nasty thing to say, and I bet you hear it all the time."

"Just today at lunch, actually," she muttered.

"Well, forget I said it. Or remember I said it, and cut out one of my articles and pin it up on a dartboard. It won't be the same as having a picture, but what with one's lifework being a representation of oneself and so forth, you could probably get some satisfaction throwing pointy objects at it."

"I probably could." Returning her gaze to the river, she took another drag on her cigarette. Link drummed his fingers on the terrace rail, enjoying the silence. It was a long time before either one of them spoke. "I need to go back in."

"Look, I still have to make good on my offer to take you out, you know, as thanks for saving me this morning." At Zelda's encouraging nod, he continued, "I've got tickets to a Scrubs game this weekend, so if hockey floats your boat..."

Stubbing the cigarette out on the railing, she replied, "I've never been, but far be it from to shun all things new and strange."

"Well, if you can stand to mingle with the unwashed masses."

A smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. "I'll bring a cattle prod."

"That's the spirit."

"Here," she reached into her bag once again and withdrew a business card. "You can reach me at either number."

Link fought the urge to do a victory dance and instead simply watched her re-enter the concert hall. Through the glass, he could see her meet up with a very large man. _So Dragmire's skipping the music, too?_ he thought. _Nice to know my cultural appreciation is on par with the Minister of Justice's._ Perhaps it was that little realization, or perhaps it was the attention shown him by two lovely ladies this evening, or perhaps it was just the fact that it was the middle of winter and still warm enough that he wasn't freezing his ass off, whatever the reason, Link leaned back against the cool marble of the railing and decided he had another entry on his official list of Best Days Ever.


	4. Chapter Three

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback to:**  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.

**Chapter Three**

As he strolled down one of the many streets that ran along the waterfront, Dark decided that winter days were made for people like him. The air was sharper, the sun was brighter-and wasn't it fortunate that he had remembered his sunglasses?-and the colors far more brilliant than any other time of the year. There was a edge to everything that he appreciated. Even the shrieks of the kids running through the playground across the street were more grating now than they would be in spring or summer. He could appreciate, that, too. To an extent.

This was one of the less glamorous districts of the city, though it was by no means one of the more run-down ones. The population was almost evenly split between Zora and Hylian, the former heading up the area's fishing industry, the latter, taking advantage of long-standing zoning laws, heading up the area's gambling industry. It was a nice enough place, Dark supposed, if you could stand the fishy smell in the air. He'd been through here last night, dropping off a little something at one of the Zora-run businesses, and now he had to follow up on the delivery. It was his job, it was what he did, and it was what kept him amused when the woman wasn't available.

He ran his fingers over the plastic box in his pocket and considered something she'd said when he'd last seen her.

Maybe he ought to give his better half a call.

An extremely loud shriek from the playground interrupted his train of thought seconds before something small hit his leg. Looking down over the top of his sunglasses, he saw a red ball roll to a stop not five feet from where he stood. He would have kept walking had not the patter of small footsteps coming from behind him piqued his interest. Glancing back once to confirm his guess, he chuckled and walked over to where the ball had landed.

He crouched down and was picking the toy up just as the young boy arrived to collect it. The child, who could not have been older than six or seven, stopped before he reached the man, staring at him warily from what he felt must have been a safe distance.

Dark grinned. "This your ball, kid?"

The boy nodded wordlessly.

"It's a nice one, all right." Still grinning, he began to toss the ball back and forth between his hands. "You gotta take better care of your toys. The next person who grabs this thing might not be as nice as me, you know? He might keep it. Or, hell, maybe I will." He made a show of very slowly tucking it into his black jacket.

Judging from the confused look in his big gray eyes, the boy didn't seem to get the joke. Then again, Dark told himself, few people in this world ever did. Everyone seemed to be getting more stupid by the minute. It was a shame, really. But not so much of one that he couldn't laugh at the boy's solemn expression. Gullible, that's what most people were. Gullible and stupid.

"Here kid," he said, tossing the ball up to the boy, who caught it without a word. "Think about what I said, all right?"

The two stared at each other for a moment longer, before the boy turned abruptly and raced back to the safety of his friends. Dark remained where he was as the kid ran across the street, between the parked cars, and past the two women who, he assumed, were supposed to be watching over the troop of tykes. Apparently, neither of them had noticed the ball-boy's departure, for they both started as he ran past, and then turned to look in the direction from which he had come. Dark granted them a lazy wave. One glared at him, but the other actually waved back.

With a chuckle, Dark rose, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled off, whistling to himself. Once he judged himself to be in the right spot, he pressed a finger against the box he'd been toying with earlier, and resumed mulling over what to do about his better half's new-found popularity.

Yes, he'd give him a call, he decided, only dimly aware of the blast from the explosion behind him. It was time to meet the kid.

* * *

"So I'm thinking that maybe this wasn't the best idea in the world."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," Link said as he and Zelda weaved their way through the brightly lit and tightly packed concourse of the Deku Center, "this isn't exactly the ideal location for a nice little gee-thanks-for-rescuing-my-sorry-ass get-together. Maybe someplace else might have been better. Someplace less crowded. Less noisy. You know, someplace where it would be easier to talk."

Zelda raised her eyebrows and cast him a sidelong glance. "Why, were you playing on conducting an interview?"

"Ah, she sees right through me. I'll have to be more subtle from now-oh, watch out there." Taking hold of her elbow, he pulled her back just in time to avoid being run over by an enormous man all decked out in Scrubs paraphernalia and clutching a near-to-overflowing tray of concessions. The fellow's gaze and attention were focused so intently on his food that he didn't even react to Link's snarl of, "Watch it, buddy!" as he barreled past.

"I don't think he was looking where he was going," Zelda said once it was clear that they had avoided disaster.

"A man with nachos has little concern for anything else," Link replied, staring after the man with a wry grin. "Not other people, not their clothes, and certainly not their dignity. To him, the only regrettable casualty of a head-on collision would be his beloved cheese."

"His cheese?"

"His _beloved_ cheese," he corrected. "The delicious, spicy puddle of goo that transforms mere chips from something ordinary to something extraordinary. The smooth orange glop that titillates the tongue like so many-you know, I could keep going like this, if you want."

Zelda peered up at him. "I'm almost tempted to let you."

"What can I say? I, too, am a nacho man."

She mulled that over for a moment before asking, "Are you trying to be funny?"

"Usually," he admitted.

"That's what I suspected. So," she said, turning slowly to take in her surroundings. "I suppose I should be more careful from here on out. Nayru only knows when I might have a close encounter of the concession kind."

Making an assenting noise, Link studied the woman before him. Judging from the cut of her clothes, a close encounter of the concession kind might end up costing hundreds of rupees. "I'm thinking," he began cautiously, "That maybe your wardrobe wouldn't appreciate an encounter. No offense, because you look stunning-well beyond stunning, really-but you're not exactly suitably attired."

She glanced down at herself, then up at him, and finally at the sports fans milling past them. She had a too-expensive suede jacket, they had worn-out sweatshirts. She was in wool gabardine, they were in jeans. She was in dry-clean-only, they were in who-the-heck-cares? With no little embarrassment, she realized that she was somewhat overdressed. "I think that you may have a point about the attire."

"Then maybe we should find something to protect it."

Her gaze followed the direction of his nod to a souvenir stand that was overflowing with Scrubs merchandise-pennants, little dolls of Shrubby the Dancing Bush mascot, hats, and, more to the point, jerseys.

"In that shade of green?" It would have been a gross understatement to say she sounded skeptical.

"They're your team's colors, Zelda. Wear 'em with pride."

"I suppose..." She still sounded doubtful, but allowed him to drag her over to the vendor.

Five minutes and far too many rupees later, Zelda's haute couture version of casual eveningwear was lost beneath a swath of green polyester, and they had ensconced themselves and their own near-to-overflowing tray of concessions in the nosebleed section of the arena.

"Okay," Link said after apologizing profusely for the poor view. "While they're still warming up out there-why don't we make some introductory small talk?"

"We could play the name game," she suggested, as she tried unsuccessfully to rip open a packet of ketchup.

"You went to camp?"

Giving up on the ketchup packet, she tossed it onto the floor and glared at it for a few seconds before answering. "Boarding school."

"Ah, so that explains the enunciation."

"Actually, I've the speech tutor to thank for that." His eyes widened, and she smirked. "I'm kidding."

He took a slow swig of his drink, considering her bright blue eyes. At last he said, "You're remarkably good at that."

"So I've been told. Now, you were saying something about playing new-kid orientation games?"

"Actually, I was thinking something more along the lines of an obnoxious college essay. For instance, tell me, in two hundred and fifty words or fewer what you'd title your autobiography and why."

She shot him a sharp look. "I thought you said that this wouldn't be an interview."

"I lied," he said and laughed as she made a face. "It's an interesting question, really, because it gets right to the heart of how you want the world to remember you. For instance," he set his cup down on the floor and shifted in the plastic seat so he was facing her, "say you want to be known as a woman whose accomplishments rocked the world on its foundation. Then you'd have go the 'memoirs of a world leader' route and just use your last name. In capital letters. Big font." His dark blue eyes got a faraway look and he made a grand gesture. "'HARKINIAN.'"

Zelda watched, dumbfounded, as he kept going. "Or, if you want to be sure to be immortalized on film as well as paper, you give it a title that makes the reader instantly think 'made-for-tv-movie,' like" he frowned, thinking for a moment. "Like, 'How Sharp Thy Scalpel: the Zelda Harkinian Story.'" Nodding to himself in approval, he looked back at her, awaiting some applause.

She blinked, glanced away as if searching for a response written in the rafters, then glanced back. "You'veput quite a lot of thought into this." Her tone was quite deliberately neutral.

"It helps pass the time during staff meetings."

With a chuckle, she leaned forward, eyes bright. "So. What have you decided?"

"For my memoirs or yours?"

"Yours. I'd hate to think that you could describe me in one phrase after knowing me for only a few days."

"Oh, don't worry, I'd stick 'enigmatic' in there to cover myself. But as for me...well, it's just too hard to pick."

"The many shades and facets of your personality are too diverse to capture in a mere five words?"

"Precisely." Retrieving his beer from the floor, he admitted, "Well, that, and I can't come up with anything that sounds sufficiently cool."

Zelda studied him for a moment, trying to read his expression. Out of the corner of his eye, Link could see movement on the rink below, but the woman next to him was far more interesting than the gameat least, at this point in the game. He'd have to re-evaluate if the Scrubs and the Bombchus went into sudden death overtime. And he really, fervently hoped that the Scrubs and the Bombchus wouldn't go into sudden death overtime, because the Scrubs needed a decisive victory if they were going to win the division, and-and from the look things, Zelda was still trying to decide whether or not he was joking. How odd. It rarely took people this long to figure it out.

He had just decided to start counting off the seconds in his head when she began to laugh.

"Oh good," he said, when her laughter turned to slightly more subdued giggles. "I was beginning to think you were taking me seriously."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I almost did."

"But then you saw the error of your ways."

"I did."

"You'd be surprised how many people don't."

Her eyes glittered with good humor. "Well, in all fairness, it did take me a while. So I suppose I can see how someone might never realize it."

"That's because I've always-oh, flaming Din, why the hell are they letting those guys get in the crease? Is this any way to get to the playoffs?"

Looking down at the rink, Zelda made a few guesses based on the gestures made by players from both teams. "Things don't seem to be going so well." If the incendiary glare her companion was directing at the players far below them was any indication, she was probably right. "I take it the home team isn't that good? Will I be ashamed of this," she tugged on her jersey, "for more than its color?"

"Actually, they've been doing pretty well this year," he said without taking his eyes off of the game. "But their first-string goalie is out tonight. His brother was one of the victims of the fishery bombing yesterday. I don't think anyone expects him to be back for a while."

"No," Zelda murmured, "I wouldn't think so."

As usual when death became the subject of conversation, conversation ceased. _Well,_ he thought, _you've managed to let things get nice and depressing. Good show, sir._

Trying but failing to conceal a scowl as the Bombchus scored yet another goal, Link drummed his fingers on his leg and tried to come up with a way to lighten the mood once more. It took a moment, but his brain eventually came through for him.

"'Maximum Linkage.'"

Zelda, who had been concentrating on trying to eat her own nachos without ruining her brand new Scrubs jersey in the process, turned and stared.

"My autobiography!" Link grinned at her. "It's the perfect title."

"Now you're trying to be funny," she decided.

"I was sort of hoping I was succeeding."

"This time? I would say so."

He chuckled. "Go, me."

She smiled back, held his gaze, and asked, apropos of nothing, "Have you ever tried to find out who your birth parents are?"

The abrupt change of subject threw him for only a second before he decided he might as well just go along with it. "I did, once," he said, mindful of the thinly veiled interest in her eyes. "But the records were sealed, and I really haven't been all that interested since. I guess I should, some day, for posterity's sake, but." He shrugged. "I am who I am, and knowing where my genes came from really isn't going to change what's in them all that much."

"No, but it can help you learn of any genetic predispositions you might have."

"Well, those I'll find out about eventually anyway."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Her bright eyes studied him for a moment longer before sliding away to the action on the rink. "I'm sorry, I know it's none of my business. I suppose it's the doctor in me."

"Obsessed with people's medical history?"

She smiled wryly. "Something like that."

Since one intrusive question deserved another, Link decided he would ask, "Why aren't you in private practice?"

Her eyes gleamed. "Because not a lot of thoracic surgery is performed outside of hospitals."

"You know, you're quite right. But still, wouldn't it be-"

With a shrug, she replied, "Why aren't you in television?"

"Ah. I see."

The conversation subsided, and they both turned their attention to the game. Or pretended to, at least. Out of the corner of his eye, Link could see Zelda drumming her fingers on her leg, obviously deep in thought. He took advantage of her distraction to study her a little more. She certainly was...interesting. Normally, Link considered himself a good judge of people- so good that sometimes he joked to Kafei that it must be a sixth sense. But every time he thought he had this woman figured out, she said something that completely laid waste to his theory.

He liked that.

People were, on the most part, easy for Link to understand. He would figure them out in five minutes and then have to spend the rest of his time listening to them act and speak exactly the way he knew they would. Boring, that's what most people were. Boring and easy.

This woman was a challenge. Half of the time, he didn't know where she was coming from or where she was going, and he was bound and determined to find out both locations. He could do it, of that Link was certain. It was only a matter of when. As he watched her turn some unknown thought over in her head, lips slightly pursed and eyes slightly narrowed, he decided that "when" would probably be later rather than sooner. _Good. I'll finally have something interesting to do._ Lights flashed and sirens blared as the Scrubs scored another goal, and she turned to look at him with brilliant blue eyes, the intensity of which made him straighten inadvertently.

"I have a story for you."

* * *

Hours later, Zelda was strolling down the hallway of her building, playing with her game program and trying to drive the Scrub's fight song out of her head. The little ditty was cute enough, what with the line about fearsome foliage, but after about the fifteen thousandth mental replay, it began to lose its charm.

The sound of a giggle drifted up to her ears, and she was rather surprised and very embarrassed to realize that it had come from her mouth. Really, she reflected, as she halted before the door of her apartment, and dug through her purse for her key, considering what she was about to do to a perfectly nice-not to mention innocent-man, she had no right to be so giddy. Then again, he was an investigative journalist, this was an important story, and these men had to be stopped. Should she blame herself for doing the only thing she knew to do?

She stared at the door until she decided that it was too late to decide anything. She would worry about it-all of it-in the morning. For now, she would allow herself some peace.

Her plan lasted until she stepped into the dark foyer and realized that she was not alone. Of course, she could always sense the presence of other minds, but this sensation was not the soft buzzing of another's thoughts. This sensation was a very familiar dead chill.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, letting the door swing shut behind her.

"Making myself comfortable," came the voice from the black pit of her living room. "And waiting for you, of course."

Zelda remained in the foyer, not wanting to move until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

There was a rustle of clothes and a creak from what must have been the sofa, and a shadow moved towards her. It slowly resolved into the silhouette of a man.

"Welcome home."

"This isn't your home."

He leered at her, teeth and eyes gleaming in what little moonlight shone through the windows. "Home is where the heart is."

Zelda found herself stepping back and cursed her own weakness. "What do you want?"

"Oh dear. I drop by just to be friendly, and she thinks I want something from her. How sad. How depressing."

Bracing herself with a hand on the doorknob, she drew in a deep breath and managed to return his smirk. "It is, isn't it? But if there's nothing you want, then you really ought to go. I'm not interested in talking to you."

"Are you sure?" he asked, slowly walking forward until he stood not more than a foot's distance from her. "We could talk about our days. Did you have an exciting day?"

"Marginally."

"Did you have a fun evening?"

She would not speak of that to him.

He leaned in towards her, bring his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath. So close she could she smell his lust. It encroached on her senses, dark and dangerous and very male. Her hand shook on the doorknob.

"So." His lips brushed against her ear. "Have you fucked him yet?"

Every molecule in her body stopped moving.

"Not that I'd be upset, or anything. After all, I like to think that we have an open-"

"Get out." The words seemed to come from somewhere other than her mouth, no less surprising for their appearance than for the quiet rage that made them tremble.

Pulling back to stare at her, he cocked an eyebrow and chided, "Temper, temper, darling."

"_Get out._"

"All right." He bared his teeth in a grin and ran his hand down her face before stepping away. "If you insist." He turned to look back at her as he opened the door, red eyes flashing briefly as the light from the hallway hit them.

And then he was gone, and she was alone.

She stood in lightless foyer for an inestimable amount of time and trembled with rage.

When at last the crimson haze faded from her vision, she stumbled into the bathroom and vomited until the only thing left in her stomach was bile. It seared the inside of her stomach and clawed at the back of her throat, burning even brighter for the fact that it didn't burn nearly enough. Shaking, she pressed her forehead against the cold porcelain of the toilet and tried not to cry.

* * *

Only thirty years old and already Link had met two of his lifelong goals. One was to win national acclaim for a whistle-blowing journalistic masterpiece. Been there, done that, gotten the Golden Quill. Another was to be handed a scoop by a gorgeous femme fatale.

Well...damn.

He ought to just shove the job and finally finish that hardboiled detective novel he'd been dreaming about since he was fourteen, just to cash in on the good luck. The rate things were going, it would be a bestseller _and_ a Notable Book of the Year.

_"It was late afternoon in Monty's on one of those winter days where the sky is harder than a Goron's ass. I was sitting at my favorite table for one with the one woman who'd never let me down: sweet lady whiskey. The lady and I were just getting reacquainted when she walked through the door. She was tall for a dame, tall and skinny, wearing fuck-me heels and a fuck-you expression."_

"What are you doing here this early?"

Link spun around in his chair. "Good morning, Kafei! How are you? How's Anju? Is everything well in your happy home?"

Kafei winced and took a long drink from his coffee mug. "Well, I thought everything was well in my happy home until I saw you, and now things are looking downright grim in comparison." He winced again as Link beamed at him. "What's got you so chipper?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. But mostly the fact that in one fell swoop I landed a hot date and a hot story."

Leaning over his friend's shoulder to peer at the computer screen, Kafei remarked, "And you're celebrating by writing more of 'The Onyx Octorok'?"

"It's 'The Jade Barinade,' asshole, and yes, I am celebrating. Is that so wrong?"

"Nah." Kafei chuckled then read aloud from the monitor, "_'I woke up in the back alley with my head ringing as if it had been stuck up in the bell tower of the Temple of Time for a drunken monk's rendition of 'Calling in the Masses' on Winterfest.'_" He arched an eyebrow at the author and let his silence speak for him. "It needs some work," Link admitted.

"Yeah, I'll say it does. So..." Pulling over a chair, Kafei prepared to grill his fellow reporter. "What's this hot scoop?"

Link shot him a suspicious look. "I'm not giving you an in on my story. Besides, wouldn't you rather hear about the hot date?"

"You've already told me about her, and even if you hadn't, I'd be hearing about her soon anyway. The story?"

"You know, with a bull-headed, inquisitive nature like that, you would make a great reporter."

"Will you just cut the-"

"Look, Kafei, even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know." A smug gleam crept into Link's blue eyes. "I told her I'd investigate it only if she waited until I took her out to dinner to tell me about it."

With a sigh, Kafei leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling. "You're the definition of professionalism."

Link made a disgusted noise. "I was kidding. And I must say, it's really insulting how ready you are to believe the worst about me." Prompted by Kafei's skeptical glance, he explained, "She wasn't willing to tell all last night. And you know what happens when you try to push too hard."

"And so you're forced to meet up with her once again. Funny how that happened."

"Farore, Kafei! You know me better than that. Did you find a moldorm in your cereal this morning, or what's got you so cranky?"

"All right." The other hand held up his hands. "Calm down, I believe you." Blue eyes glared at him for a moment longer, prompting him to add, "And I didn't find any moldorms in my cereal."

"Well there's a relief," Link muttered, turning back to his computer. "I'm glad to hear it. Can't see why you'd have any reason to be in a snit, anyway. You're not the one who's going to have to spend his day working on a story about a lights display."

"Yeah, acting like a woman's your perrog-" The phone rang, interrupting him. "I hope that's not for me."

Link shot him a questioning look as he leaned across his desk. "What, yours still isn't fixed? Why in Din's blazing hell aren't you calling the phone company to complain about it?"

"I can't call them because I don't have a phone. Will you please answer yours before the ringing makes me crazy?"

Rolling his eyes, Link picked up the receiver. "Trib newsroom."

"Hmm, yes, hello. This is just your average everyday Hylian citizen calling. Is there anybody there who'd like a good story?"

The voice was male and unfamiliar, but a dark note in its playful tone made Link want to glance over his shoulder to make sure there was no one lurking behind him. "I'm always looking for a good story. What's yours?"

"Oh, it's a fascinating little tale of power and corruption, starring some very important people, some not-so-very important people, and a few unimportant but damn good-looking people."

"Sounds like it's got all the elements of a good yarn." Leaning back in his chair, Link began to toy with a pen. "Almost too good to be true. Want to let me in on it?"

A dry chuckle wafted through the receiver. "Over the phone? I'm afraid not. One never knows who might be listening."

Link twirled his pen through his fingers for several seconds before deciding, "All right. Where, then?"

From his seat not a few feet away, Kafei watched intently as his friend scribbled down directions. "Another scoop?" he asked, after the blond hung up.

Link shrugged. "So this guy thinks." Chuckling, he settle back in his chair, and shot Kafei an amused glance. "He wants to meet in an abandoned warehouse. Can you believe that? It's like something out of a bad movie. I can't wait to meet him, see what someone like this looks like in real life."

"You're going?"

"Well, considering that I'm supposed to be spending the morning calling midtown residents and asking them how they feel about the Winter Festival lights display being moved, I'm rather surprised I'm not already halfway to that warehouse by now."

"You don't think," Kafei leaned forward, eyes dark, "that maybe this is just a little weird?"

"It's weird, but maybe he just doesn't want to be seen meeting with the press."

"It's very weird. Why not just wait until after dark to meet somewhere a little more public? Why now all of a sudden and in a place so inaccessible? Your sources for the bridge story never played this kind of game."

"No they didn't, but c'mon. As much as I like to think I'm important, I really doubt anyone's out to get me. And if he's just some deranged lunatic, why not grab a victim off the street? You called it a game, and I'll bet you rupees to deku nuts that that's exactly what it is. This guy's probably some disgruntled worker who wants to rat out his boss and wants to play cloak and dagger while he's at it." Link shrugged again. "Fine. I can humor him."

"But what if he is a deranged lunatic and gets nasty?"

"Then I'll slap a citizen's arrest on his ass."

"Look, I just want you to be careful."

"Yes, mother," Link muttered as he grabbed a notepad and a tape recorder and stuffed them into his coat pocket.

"I'm serious, Link; don't get too wrapped up in this fantasy of yourself as some sort of almighty champion who must put himself in dangerous situations for the good of the readership. You're not covering a war, and you're not a cop. Thinking that you are will get you in trouble, and I've got the gunshot scar to prove it."

"Yeah, only this is a meeting with a source I'm going to, not a drug bust where all parties are armed." Seeing that concern lingered in Kafei's red eyes, Link sighed and conceded, "Look, if you don't hear from me in two hours, get some of your buddies from the K-9 unit at the station to go sniff out my bones."

Kafei mulled that idea over, and conceded with the slightest of smiles. "All right. But don't think I'll pay for the funeral."

Link smirked and punched his friend on the shoulder as he walked away.


	5. Chapter Four

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback to:**  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.

**Chapter Four**

The place wasn't nearly as dark as Link had thought it would be-and a good thing, too, since he had just remembered that the only flashlight he owned was sitting in the glove compartment of his car on the repairman's lot a good ten miles away. So it was fortunate that the windows near the warehouse's ceiling had yet to be covered with dirt and grime. No doubt that would happen in a few years, but for now, enough of the morning sun shone through for him to see quite clearly.

From where he stood just inside the entrance, Link considered calling out to his mysterious source, but decided that it might not be prudent to advertise his presence. Perhaps it was the strange angle of the light shining on the boxes or perhaps it was the eerie silence pervading the building or perhaps it was his own overly developed sense of melodrama -whatever the reason, something was making his skin tingle with apprehension.

_Now what?_

He supposed he could stand around and wait for something to happen. That idea provided a moment's worth of nervous levity, as one of the things Link hated most in life was waiting around for something to happen. He was still chuckling about that when he heard a noise-a loud thump as if someone had dropped something heavy onto the ground, come from within the bowels of the building.

Inquisitive fellow that he was, he decided to go investigate. _Now,_ he reasoned as he weaved his way through the stacks of crates, _if I can hear my own footsteps so well, and I'm trying to be quiet, I should be able to hear anyone else in here. So what the hell was that?_

Perhaps an unbalanced crate had tipped over. Or, perhaps, the source of the noise was a person who was otherwise very good at hiding his presence. Which left one to wonder why this person would want to hide his presence.

There was that apprehension again.

To put himself a little more at ease, Link replayed his conversation with Kafei in his head. It was almost funny how easy it was to play the guy.

Correction: it _was_ funny how easy it was to play the guy.

It wasn't so much that Link was above being unprofessional to spend time with a beautiful woman-and, though it would shock many to learn it, he was-as it was that she had been unwilling to give any details on her purported scoop.

_"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-I don't know for sure yet."_

_"When will you know?"_

_"Tomorrow night."_

And so he had had to wait and hope that she would find whatever it was she needed to provide her with some surety. And so here he was following up another purported lead, and he had almost covered the entire floor and still not found the source of the noise, and-and there was a foot sticking out from behind one of the crates.

Stories and nerves forgotten, he trotted over to the foot which, as feet were wont to be, was attached to a leg which in turn was attached to a body lying face down on the dirty floor. Scanning his surrounding for whatever it was that might have felled the man, Link crouched down beside him and rolled the fellow over onto his back. At that point, the rational part of his brain began to babble something about getting the hell out. Anyone with a crushed skull was beyond help.

Ignoring that little voice, he needlessly pressed his fingers to the man's neck to feel for a pulse. There was none, of course, but the body was still warm. _If you hadn't spent so much time looking for a safe place to park the rental, you might have gotten here in time to help the poor bastard._

With a grimace, he shook his head to clear it of such stupid thoughts. If he'd arrived any sooner, he might have ended up dead, too. How in Din's blazing hell could he have helped, anyway?

One man dead of a blow to the head, sprawled out on the floor of a building that had not been used for years. What was the story? A deal gone wrong? A hit? Unlikely-professionals preferred guns to large blunt objects. Why would the poor bastard have been in here, anyway? Had he seen something suspicious from outside?

Why was Link here, again?

Ostensibly, he was here to meet up with a source about what he had assumed was going to be a silly little cloak and dagger act. But now things were looking a little less silly, and, Din damn it, there was no way he was going home now. Something serious was going on, and he couldn't concieve of leaving without figuring out what. Besides, he couldn't just leave the guy sprawled here on the ground like this. Surely someone would be missing him. Someone would need to know what had happened to him.

Link sat back on his heels and considered his next course of action. There was a pizza place down the block. It would have a phone. He'd take one last tour around this place-give the source one last chance to show up and fill him in on what the hell was going on-and then go call the police.

He had just risen to his feet when he heard a door slam, the sound echoing off the walls and ceiling. That made him jump, while the subsequent heavy footsteps sent enough adrenaline rushing through his system to power five small armies. He tried to tell his body to chill out-the noise was probably just the mysterious source, but it didn't seem to be listening very well. Then again, Link reasoned as he stuck his head out from behind the crate shielding his view of the newcomer, considering that the mysterious source may very well have been the man that had clobbered the guy lying on the ground beside himand then he saw that what was making the noise was not a man at all.

At least seven feet tall and well over three hundred pounds, dark gray of skin and made of solid muscle-the thing was huge. Its movements were slow and deliberate, much as one would expect of something that size, and it was carrying something large. If Link were the more fanciful type, he'd have called it a club. The thing also had a distinctly canine profile. If Link were the more fanciful type, he'd have called it a.

_Dog-man._

Okay. Sure. Why not?

_I don't think you understand,_ his brain informed him. _I said, "Dog-man."_

Link ruminated on the word for a few moments until, abruptly, its meaning sunk in. "Holy Farore," he breathed, then realized his mistake as the... whatever...turned and spotted him. Cold yellow eyes met bright blue ones, and all of the blood in Link's body rushed to his feet.

_Leave. Now._

The words had barely formed in his head before the creature rocked back on its heels and launched itself at him with a spittle-spraying snarl. Without even realizing what he was doing, Link threw himself to the side just as a mass of teeth and claws flew past, raking the air where his head had been.

He hit the ground hard, but, judging from the resounding crash off to his right, not nearly as hard as the creature. For a moment, he lay there, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Actually, when he thought about it, what had just happened was pretty simple: A dog-man had just attacked him.

A _dog-man_ had just attacked _him._

Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps he ought to take a second look. But, alas, when he got to his feet, grabbing a loose piece of plywood as a weapon, the thing that was also struggling to get back on its feet was still definitely canine in appearance. And the look in its eyes when it focused on Link after recovering its footing was definitely predatory. And...did that club have _spikes_ sticking out of it?

This outing wasn't turning out to be the silly little noir homage Link had originally thought-so far, it was running more like a low-budget horror movie, starring his brain as the advice from the audience. _Get out, moron! Get out!_

Man and beast stared at each other for a tense moment until Link's fight-or- flight instinct kicked in and made the wrong decision. He lunged forward, swinging the board at the creature's knees. By some twist of fate, he managed to land the blow, but beast went down swinging and managed to land a blow with the business end of the spiked club. Having never lost a single fight during his school days, Link had had little experience with the kind of pain associated with having one's shoulder ripped open. It knocked his feet out from underneath him. He managed to get to his knees just in time to be kicked in the face. Blind, he swung his board where he was sure the beast would be, only to have it be ripped out of his hands, taking a good bit of the skin of his palms with it.

His vision came back just in time to see the monster standing over him. Link clenched his fists in frustration and chose to ignore the blood that oozed out between his fingers. The beast snarled and raised its club, and all he could think was, _Shit, Kafei was right,_ and, _Now I'll never get that Din damned book done,_ as he realized he was about to die.

Fortunately, he didn't.

A gunshot cracked against his eardrums, and the dog-beast's head shattered. Blood and brains seared his face as the creature crumbled to the ground, and Link felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

Swallowing hard, he slowly forced his head to turn in the direction from which he thought the shot had come.

"Motherfucking Farore-" he breathed.

"Hello," said the man with his face. "Fancy meeting you here."

It took Link a moment to realize that he was gaping like an idiot.

"Didn't those people they fobbed you off on teach you any manners?"

"You're-" Link started but couldn't manage anything else. His brain was working faster than his mouth possibly could, yammering about so many different things that he just decided to ignore it. Instead, he concentrated on studying the person before him. Except for the coloring, this man looked so much like Link, he might as well be him. And that pissed him off. "What is this?" he growled.

"_That,_" the man nodded at the dog-man's carcass, "is one of the big hairy monsters your buddy's police buddies keep spotting when on patrol. Dog-men, boogiemen, moblins like in the kiddy books, whatever you want to call them. Nasty brutes, aren't they?"

As Link considered his response, another part of his brain took stock of his physical condition. Nothing seemed to be broken; he could feel all of his extremities, but his face and head and shoulder pulsed in pain in time with his heartbeat. He _hurt._ And that pissed him off even more. "This is the stupidest thing that's ever happened to me. Is this your idea of feeding me a story?" He glared up at the man. "Let me almost get eaten by it first?"

"Story?"

"Yeah, nice of you to get around to that. What is it, exactly? You want me to write about this-these monsters? Is that the story?"

The man stared at him. Slowly, a feral grin began to creep across his all-too-familiar face. "Idiot. There's no story. I just wanted to say hello to my long-lost little brother."

He should have been surprised. He was not. He should have been surprised that he was not surprised. He was not. Instead, Link heard himself mutter, "You could have sent a candygram."

His double threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter. "That's right, I could. But it's much more fun this way, don't you think?"

"Almost as much fun as a family reunion."

"Ah, but doubt I'd be welcome at one of those. I'm something of a black sheep."

Swallowing some of the blood that had drained through his sinuses to his mouth, Link pushed himself to his feet and said, "So instead you get me to come here. Did you invite that other guy, too?"

"Which other guy?"

"The dead one." Link jerked his head in the direction of where he'd left the body. "See that foot over there?"

The man cocked his head. "No."

It probably wasn't wise to look away from this freak of nature, but Link did so anyway. The thing was right. The body was gone. "Where-" Shit and fuck, it was hard to focus when his head felt as if it was a wolfos's hair from exploding. "What did you do to it?"

"You know," the thing drawled, "with a bull-headed, inquisitive nature like that, you would make a great reporter."

The tiny part of Link's brain that wasn't still in shock wondered if _he_ was that annoying. "What did you _do_?" he hissed.

"It's so sad. I try to reach out to family, only to find myself pushed away. Is this any way to treat your long-lost brother?"

"You know, you've mentioned that," Link observed. "But you know, I don't give a bombchu's metal ass who or what you are."

"You don't? You and I both know us better than that."

"All right, fine. Who are you?"

"Who are you?"

"_What_ are you?"

"What are you?"

It would not be wise, Link told himself as he stood there, fuming and helpless, to try and wipe the smirk off the thing's face. He wasn't exactly in the best physical condition at the moment, and even if he had been, the creature was armed.

"But don't let me keep you. I'm sure you've got a lot of things to do. You are, after all, a busy man." It drew closer without seeming to move at all. This close it was impossible to deny that his features were an exact replica of Link's own. Or vice-versa. "You don't have to believe me if you'd rather believe you're going crazy."

"Forgive me if I don't find either choice very attractive."

"Well, maybe there's hope for you after all," it mused. "Don't worry, I'll send you something to help you figure this all out. Provided, of course, you've got half a brain." The man's grin broadened so that his canines were visible. "Though I suppose it's entirely possible that you don't. Sometimes I think I got more than my fair share." He reached out and clasped Link's injured shoulder. "Think about the moblin. Clever, isn't it?"

As if to emphasize his words, he tightened his grip, fingers digging into the open wound. Pain turned the world red, then white, and when Link could finally see again, he was alone.

* * *

It was odd, Zelda realized, that she always seemed to be doing lunch with someone. Dinner would make more sense; she would not have to take time out of her workday, and most people met with family and acquaintances in the evening, reserving the lunch hour for business transactions. Then again, Zelda also realized, she was able to buy time out of her workday whenever she chose. And it would be safer to consider these men business partners.

_Far more productive, too,_ she thought as she draped an arm across the back of the loveseat she lounged upon, and waited for one of them to speak first.

It was the Judge, of course. "Zelda, dear, we're a little concerned about you."

"You are?" She fancied that her look of surprise was artfully crafted and masterfully executed. In reality, she supposed, she probably just looked peevish. "How sweet."

Something in her expression must have been sarcastic enough, for her father's eyes narrowed and he shifted towards her in his seat. "You _are_ my daughter."

Why must she be surrounded by fools who felt it necessary to state the obvious? "Great Din," she breathed. "I had no idea." Encouraged by the Judge's disapproving frown, she continued, "Your daughter? This is such a shock! Such a surprise! Why," and here she looked over at the other man in the room, "oh why didn't anyone tell me?"

Pale yellow eyes alight with mirth, Ganondorf Dragmire grinned and replied, "Because we thought you'd figure it out eventually. Alas, we were wrong."

Zelda winked at him. "Alas, indeed." Returning her attention to her father and her voice to its usual clipped tones, she asked, "What are you concerned about?"

"You health, for one. Are you still smoking?"

"From time to time."

"And drinking?"

Wordlessly, she held up her wine glass. He glared at her for the little insolence, a glare which she met with a smug look of her own. _I know what you're thinking,_ she thought. _There's nothing you can hide from me._ She wouldn't invade his mind unless it was absolutely necessary, of course, but that didn't change the fact that she could, and they both knew it. Which was why his next words were spoken with an irritated tone designed to hide his nervousness. "Do you even try to take care of yourself?"

Zelda shrugged. "I do the best I can."

"To do what?" With a chuckle, Dragmire rose from his throne-like chair and headed for entrance to the room, where one of his staffers had materialized scant seconds before. "Don't answer that," he called over his shoulder.

She wasn't about to. Punish them by punishing herself? How ridiculous. Did he think she was that foolish, or did he think he was that important? Irked, she watched the Minister of Justice answer whatever question the scrawny aide had come to him with, before sending the boy on his way and re-entering the room.

"Keeping the country safe from criminals?" she asked, seeing her opportunity to steer the conversation towards the subject she'd come here to learn more about.

"It's a tough job, but..." One thing could be said for the minister; he expected people to be smart enough to fill in any blanks he left them. Zelda appreciated that to no end.

"And yet you keep one in your employ."

Spreading his hands expansively, Dragmire grinned and said, "And you keep one as a companion. The same one, if I'm recalling correctly."

"I try to spend as little time with him as possible."

"And I try to keep him from doing anything too criminal." His eyes gleamed, and even though she was on the taxophil, Zelda knew with a surety that only a telepath could possess that he was lying. Which, of course, was what she had suspected all along. "All I can do is my best," the minister was saying, still smirking, "and wonder where I went wrong."

"Oh, no doubt you'll learn one day when he goes on a talk show and spills the story of a childhood spent under a microscope and how the trauma of it lead him to an adulthood of crime."

"Shall I assume that I'll also be seeing you on the same show?"

"Her childhood wasn't traumatic," Harkinian snapped.

Zelda smiled. "No, but it was excruciatingly boring."

"Typical whitewashed upper-crust Hylian?" Dragmire asked, humor lighting his pale eyes.

"Duller than a leever's hide." She took a sip of her wine and thought for a moment. "Except for mother's psychotic break. That livened things up a little." Shooting a wry look at her father, she added, "Until you had her carted off."

Harkinian snorted. "Of course I had her carted off. The last thing I needed during the campaign was to have my wife running around telling people that she'd been abducted, and you were the result of some strange alien experiment."

"It's not as if she was very far off," Zelda pointed out and grinned when she heard the Minister of Justice chuckle. "But back to our original subject: I understand you have him performing odd jobs for you these days."

One did not rise as far as Dragmire had in the political world without learning to control one's expressions. His face remained as congenial as ever. "Indeed I do."

Digging a little deeper, she unconsciously leaned forward and added, "He also tells me he's been spending a great deal of time in the Zora district." No reaction. She decided to fire an intentionally off-target arrow. "You know how he is. Don't you find it awfully coincidental that he just happens to be spending time near the latest GFF targets?" She watched him carefully over the rim of her wineglass and, suddenly, there it was in his eyes: the mixture of alarm and uncertainty that denoted the guilty when they were not sure whether or not someone was aware of what they had done. As always when she was drugged, the impressions were hazy and out of focus. But they were definitely there.

"It's a possibly," he conceded.

"I'd say it's more than."

"You would, would you?"

"I would." It was time to steer the conversation in a less suspect direction. Zelda made a show of frowning in irritation and said, "I must say, I still don't understand why you can't control that bastard."

The big man shrugged. "You know what he's like. I try, but...he is who he is."

She couldn't help it. She shot him an accusatory look. "Just as you intended?"

The Judge stiffened, but the minister laughed. "Not exactly, Zelda. Not exactly how we intended." Still chuckling, Dragmire looked over as his compatriot. "In fact, not how we intended at all, eh, Harkinian?"

"No," Harkinian replied, reflecting none of Dragmire's good humor. "Obviously, we were not fully aware of the potential consequences of-"

"A lecture on the hazards of playing goddess, father?" Zelda interrupted, arching her brow in disbelief. "Please tell me you're not growing trite in your old age."

At that, Dragmire threw his head back and laughed. Harkinian merely pressed his lips together and stared at his daughter stonily. He opened his mouth to say something but was forestalled by the re-appearance of the staffer. "Sir?" the young man asked, not flinching when three pairs of calculating eyes focused on him. "The car is ready to take you to the Cabinet meeting."

"Duty calls," Dragmire said as he rose. He nodded to the Judge, then turned to Zelda. "Don't be a stranger."

"Don't worry," she replied.

Harkinian watched the minister depart and then returned his attention to his daughter. "Don't play games with Dragmire, Zelda."

"Games?"

His gaze hardened. "And don't treat me like a fool. After all of the years I've spent in politics, I know more than you do about the games people play with one another."

"I'm not playing a game, father," Zelda insisted, almost gently.

"No?" He looked both amused and indulgent, and she had to smother the urge to get up and hit him. "Then what are you doing?"

She smiled. "I'm fulfilling my destiny."

_

* * *

I should have taken the carcass with me._

It could have worked. He could have dragged it outside to his rental, thrown it into the trunk, and taken it home. The frigid winter temperature would have kept the body from starting to decay overnight, so when he hauled it into the police station the next morning, it would have looked exactly the same as it had when it was killed.

_No, no, no. Not the police station. The office. Get permission for a piece._

Right, then. The office. He could have hauled it up to the bullpen, had some members of the ed board take a look, convinced them that dead dog-men were more important than light displays, and been bounced out of Features right then and there.

It occurred to him that there was something terribly wrong with this whole train of thought. Crossing his arms, Link leaned back against the building he was waiting in front of, stared into the street, and tried to figure out what.

As he mulled that one over, he also decided that it was grossly unfair that he should still be in pain even after taking all of those pills. He'd downed half a bottle's worth of painkillers and had been staring at the remaining half when it occurred to him that if he took any more, he'd probably pass out and break his head open on the bathroom counter. Given the choice between "Tragic Bathroom Misstep Proves Fatal for Local Reporter" and suffering like a man, Link's pride had voted for the latter. Of course, the fact that he kept losing track of his thoughts had absolutely nothing to do with the amount of medication coursing through his veins. Nothing at all.

_Guess what, everybody? I have an evil twin._

He supposed he ought to be curious or horrified or angry or something, anything, in the wake of that revelation, and perhaps he would be any combination of those things tomorrow. But at this moment, he was simply numb. And, come to think of it, a little bit hungry, which made him wonder when his dinner date was going to arrive.

He had decided not to mention his little excursion to Zelda. His chances of getting laid wouldn't be too great if she thought he was crazy.

Ah, but he kidded. He kidded.

The real reason was that he simply didn't want to think-much less talk- about it until he was sure that he really wasn't going crazy. Once he was secure in his sanity, he would talk. But until then, well, he just wasn't going to think about it. He had tried to call the police, but apparently they were either sick of being mocked by the media for recording reports of dog-men sightings or sick of fielding false reports of such sightings, because he had been rather tersely told to tell it to his shrink before the officer on call had hung up.

_"Hello, Castle City police station? Yes, I'd like to report that I was attacked by a dog-man and lived because someone with my face blew its head off. Could you please dispatch a clean-up crew? Oh, and there was this dead body, too, only now it's gone, but you might want to check around to see if you find it stuck somewhere."_

Maybe he _was_ crazy.

So instead of trying again with the cops, Link had dutifully called Kafei to let him know that he was alive and taking the rest of the day off, and then had gone home to shower. It had taken a while to get all of the blood and brain matter out of his hair-and thank Din he hadn't met anyone on his way up from the parking lot to his apartment-but he'd managed do so and appear in front of the restaurant, clean, well-dressed, and still pumped full of adrenaline. Which meant that his hormones were doing their own frenzied version of the New Wave Bossanova. Which meant, in turn, that he was thinking highly inappropriate thoughts about what the appropriate end of the evening should be. And the appropriate end did not include any evil twins. Because, he figured, that would just be too weird.

_Din damn it, why didn't I think to take the carcass with me?_

"Definitely crazy," he muttered.

"Who's crazy?"

His mood went from grim to gleeful so quickly it gave his insides whiplash. With a grin, he turned around. "Me, but you've probably figured that out by now. Although, if you'd quit sneaking up on me from behind, I'd be able to hide it better."

In a way, it was almost gratifying to see the retort die on her lips as she took in his newly-decorated visage. And it definitely was gratifying to see her blue eyes widen in shock. "Sweet Nayru, what happened to you?"

"I had a little run-in with someone who thought I'd look better with a broken nose. It's not important."

"Not important? You look hideous."

He adopted a dejected look, and his facial muscles shrieked at him for his insensitivity to their feelings. And yet, oddly, the shrieking seemed to be somewhere far away, as if there was a barrier between it and his consciousness. _Not "oddly." Remember the pills, dumbscrub?_ "You're only seeing me because of my looks?"

"Have you been to the hospital?"

"And here I thought you were the kind to look beyond the man without to see the one within."

"Of course you haven't...look at you." She reached up and began to poke around his various bruises.

"And I must say, I'm rather disill-" his breath hissed in between his teeth as she prodded a particularly sensitive spot. "Quit it."

Ignoring him, she prodded a bit more before stepping back and giving him an assessing look. "I don't think you've broken anything, but one can never be too sure. I'll drive."

"But I made reservations," he protested. "We can go after dinner."

"I don't think that would be wise."

"Why, are you afraid the other patrons will think you're abusing me?"

With an exasperated sigh, she tugged at his arm. "You're in shock."

"Really? And here I thought it was true love."

Zelda arched a single eloquent brow and renewed her attempt to drag him off.

It was interesting, he thought, that he could see her hand on his arm, but he couldn't feel it. Come to think of it, he couldn't really feel much at this point besides the throbbing in his face and shoulder. He wondered how this scene would look like to an ignorant passer-by. _Probably pretty funny._ He then wondered what it this scene would look like if he had done what he should have done after picking himself up off the floor of the warehouse and was rewarded with an image of her dragging him dragging a big stinking dog-man carcass. _That's pretty funny, too._

Maybe he would share that. She looked like she could use a laugh. "You know what's funny? I mean, besides good jokes and dogs with crazy hats and life, but I guess life's more funny in an ironic sense, what with everyone caring so much about things that matter so little, you know, whether they got a good deal on a tv or what the latest fashion in neckwear is or what some celebrity had for breakfast yesterday and, you know what? I don't _care_ about what some celebrity had for breakfast yesterday, and I don't _want_ to know, only now I _have_ to know because that's my new job, and it's a pain in the ass because what's the use of wasting my time on something that's so Din damned unimportant like celebrity breakfasts or shoes and...where was I?"

At that, she turned back around to face him. "The offer to drive you to the emergency room is going to expire in about two seconds. I have better things to do with my evening than coddle a grown man." Her tone was firm, but her gaze was sympathetic.

"Not exactly the nurturing type, are you?"

"I have my pride."

He smiled and the motion sent sparks of pain flaring through his bruised muscles. "That hurt," he said, wincing and reaching up involuntarily. "That-yeah, that hurt."

Zelda did not bother to comment; she did not need to. Her expression spoke volumes. He glanced away from it, over her shoulder, and for the briefest of moments, the reflection in the window behind her was not his own.

_"I'm something of a black sheep."_

His buoyant mood crashed to the ground in a pile of flaming rubble. "I think-I have considered you plan and found it..." He lost track of that train of thought and sighed. "I think we should go."

She nodded silently before turning on her heel, gesturing for him to follow. Somewhat disgruntled and slightly confused, but still too drugged to feel either in full, Link followed.

"This was supposed to be a good night," he muttered as they sat in triage several hours later. True to form, the emergency room staff had given him an entire book's worth of forms to fill out and left him to sit for a few hours. Link wondered if perhaps they had forgotten about him, which, he supposed, would be a fitting end for the day. "The restaurant was going to feed us some good food, you were going to feed me a good story...what is the story, by the way? Or do we have to drive to another abandoned warehouse before you'll tell me?"

Zelda looked up from the ragged copy of Hylian World Report she was flipping through. "Warehouse?"

Leaning his head back against the wall, Link closed his eyes. "Nothing. Never mind. Long story." One he was too tired to go into. The half-bottle of pills he had taken were wearing off, and his head was beginning to throb again. He hurt. He was tired. He had an evil twin. It was too absurd to be real. Perhaps he had simply hallucinated it all. He rather hoped he had hallucinated it all, but, then again, he didn't particularly relish the idea of-

"I think Ganondorf Dragmire is funding the GFF."

Link opened his eyes. After replaying her statement in his head a few times, he decided that either he had misheard her or his mind was playing tricks on him again. "Sorry, what?"

"I said, I think Ganondorf Dragmire is funding the GFF."

Now that he thought about it, it was probably the most believable thing he had heard all day. "Is he?"

"You don't seem surprised," she observed.

"Surprised? About Dragmire?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"I suppose I should say that the paltry few years I've spent in my profession have been enough to harden my once soft and innocent belief in the purity of those in public service into a deeply cynical one that just knows that everyone's out to get everyone else. But I have to tell you, it's really because at this moment, nothing surprises me."

Bright blue eyes studied him, calm yet considering. "What happened to you this morning?"

"You wouldn't believe it."

"You'd be surprised what I believe."

"No one in her right mind would believe it."

To his utter surprise, she laughed. "I've never been in my right mind. In fact, I've very often been in someone else's. But that," she added as he opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, "is yet another story."

Link groaned. "Please, not another one." Her lips twisted into what might become a wry smile, but he continued before she could say anything. "All right. You think Dragmire's funding the GFF. Let's not even get into the whos and whys and hows." Meeting her gaze as evenly as he could in his condition, he asked, "Are you _sure_?"

For the briefest of seconds, she hesitated. "Yes."

"Do you have any evidence?"

Again, there was a slight hesitation. "No. Not really. That's why I need you."

"Why not go to the police?"

This time, the response was immediate. "I don't believe in them."

The evening, it seemed, was getting crazier by the moment. And here he had thought that would have been impossible. "But you believe in me?"

"Yes."

"You've only known me for a few weeks," he felt obliged to point out.

"Well..." Zelda looked away and frowned ever so slightly. "It sounds incredibly stupid," she muttered, "but I really do feel as if I've known you my entire life."

Link had no idea what to say to that. He supposed he ought be glad, but something told him not to get too excited. There was a catch in there somewhere, he could sense it. "Oh," was the best he could come up with, and upon further reflection, "okay." But by then she had re-immersed herself in the magazine, and the triage nurse was calling his name.


	6. Chapter Five

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback to:**  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.

**Chapter Five**

"Holy Farore, what on Hyrule happened to you?"

Blinking against the overly bright light of the newsroom, Link swept past Kafei's desk and threw his coat over his own. "Don't ask."

"Is your boyfriend still beating you?"

"Yeah, but he swore he'd never do it again if I gave him another chance."

"Are you going to take him back?"

"I must, for I am but a shell of a man without him." Link flopped down into his chair and instantly regretted the act as the pounding in his shoulder increased in tempo. "I am lost, alone, and bereft-" His head felt as if it was about to explode, which was neither fair nor right, seeing as how he'd choked down yet _another_ half bottle of aspirin after he'd gotten up that morning. And really, with that much medication in his system, he ought to be about to finish his sentences. Then again... "Bereft without-" Perhaps if he tried massaging his forehead...of course, his hand slipped, and he ended up poking the swollen tissue around his black eye. "Ouch! Fuck! Bereft without him, damn it!"

"Link."

Looking up, he met Kafei's gaze as best he could when he knew he'd either have to deflect the inevitable questions or invent convincing lies. Kafei was a good friend, and Link appreciated the concern-to an extent-but there were some things far too strange to share with even with the best of friends. "All right. Ask."

"What happened?" When Link remained silent, he added, "It looks like someone kicked your ass."

"Someone? Oh no, not some_one_."

"Okay, so some_thing_. Did you run into a pole again?"

Very slowly, very carefully, Link shook his head and was relieved when the action proved relatively painless. "No, no poles. This time."

"Well, I'd guess that your psycho source clobbered you, but you just said that it wasn't a person who did it." Kafei frowned. "Did you even get to meet the guy? Did he have anything interesting to say?"

_I have seen the source, and he is me._ Link fought a sudden urge to laugh and said, "No, but I did see a dead body."

"Did you poke it with a stick?"

"Don't be disgusting."

Several seconds passed before Kafei spoke again. "You were joking, right?"

"Yeah, sure." Picking up a pen, Link leaned back in his chair and mulled over the events of the previous day. He decided that they all added up to one Megagoron-sized ball of wrong. His life sucked. His boss hated him, his car-his beloved junk heap on wheels that had seen him through college, two jobs, and three apartments-was dead, he hadn't scored in what seemed like forever, and now he was getting beaten up by freaks of nature and being lectured by even freakier ones, and, and...and Din, he was whining. To himself, which was about the stupidest waste of energy he could think of. At least whining to someone else might win him some sympathy.

Once again, he had to fight the urge to laugh.

"Link?" Kafei's voice startled him-he'd forgotten the other man was there. "What the hell is going on?"

"I'm not sure yet." And he wouldn't be until he'd figured out his next course of action. He could run with Zelda's story, or he could spend some time trying to figure out who and what his double was and what it might want from him. "What would you say if I told you I had an evil twin?"

"I thought _you_ were the evil twin."

"You're a funny man." _Or,_ the snide beast within him said, _you could continue to sit on your ass and feel sorry for yourself. Think of how much fun that would be._

Link told it to shut the hell up.

He'd pursue the GFF story. It was possible that Zelda was wrong or lying through perfect little teeth, but his gut told him otherwise. Besides, he'd never liked what he'd seen of Dragmire. As for the other thing, deep down, he had the sinking feeling that the other thing would probably deal with him before he got a chance to deal with it. And when it did, Link would...well, he had to admit, he wasn't quite sure what he'd do. But whatever it was, it would be something.

Maybe he ought to buy a gun.

Tossing the pen back onto his desk, he sat up and began hunting through his desk for his directory of Parliament. If he was going to go after Dragmire, he'd need some big guns on his side-or perhaps just one moderately sized one. Regardless, he needed someone with influence, knowledge, and a willingness to put her ass on the line for the greater good. He also needed to show up at her office unannounced, otherwise her flunkies would probably put him off for days.

Kafei was asking him something as he found the directory and began scribbling down contact information. Link made a non-committal noise, then tuned back in enough to ask, "What?" when he heard the words "Bloody mess."

"Fine, be that way. I won't waste my time asking if you bothered to see a doctor, since I know you're too dumb to get yourself help."

This time, Link did laugh. "I had a date last night, what else would you expect?"

"Knowing your priorities? Not a damn thing." A gleeful gleam suddenly entered Kafei's eyes, and he leaned towards his friend with a grin. "I guess that means you don't know yet that you owe me twenty rupees." At Link's blank stare, he added, "Torvelin got booted off the show last night."

Link groaned. "And useless Mr. Pecs got to stay? What the hell is wrong with our fellow Hylians?"

"Considering that the show even exists..."

"He hasn't done anything for his team! It was a sure bet!"

"No, actually, it wasn't. Anju says she's glad the eye candy will be sticking around."

"Women are so shallow."

"It's the only thing that explains why you get any dates." Kafei chuckled and added dryly, "You'll be pleased to know, however, that Cara of the mighty bosom survived, too. She's still having problems forming complete sentences, but it seems that some people just couldn't stand to see her go."

"Thank Din for small favors," Link muttered, gathering up his things. "Can you do something for me?"

Kafei's eyes narrowed as he realized that a repeat of the previous day's events was about to occur. "Why?"

"Get your buddies at the station to send us copies the police reports for all of the GFF bombings in the past year."

"Sure. Anything else? Take your calls? Shine your shoes?"

"Cover for me."

"I feel like I'm trapped in some sort of temporal loop." At Link's pleading look, he snorted and said, "I'll do my best."

"Thanks, Kafei; you're an angel."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams every night, I'm sure."

By the time Kafei could come up with an adequately snide response, Link was gone.

* * *

Even on her best days, Zelda had little patience for the foibles of the common man, and she found herself hard-pressed to care about the problems people created for themselves. While not conducive to strong interpersonal relationships, her attitude had served her well in her professional career, for she rarely found herself involved in office politics and crises, such as the one the Chief of Surgery had instigated earlier that morning. Zelda wasn't quite sure what it was that had everyone fluttering about like frightened cuccos, but she quickly decided that she didn't have time for the utterly pointless angst and retreated to the hospital cafeteria with a cup of coffee and the latest copy of the Annals of Thoracic Surgery.

After fifteen minutes, she wondered why she had even bothered. The stark white tiling, the harsh fluorescent lighting, and the confused fervor of the dozens of worried minds surrounding her began to grind on her nerves like a sternal saw. It probably would have been tolerable if she hadn't spent most of the previous night sitting in the emergency room, trying not to think about how she felt about being there, but as it was, she was running on precious little sleep and exhaustion had always exacerbated the ability of other minds to impinge on her own.

Eventually, she gave up and pulled the bottle of taxophil out of her pocket and gulped down three pills. She then took a long drink of the now-tepid coffee and tried to turn her attention back to the paper. Halfway through the statistical analysis of Faborgan's findings-and she wished she'd brought a calculator with her, for she knew Faborgan was likely to accidentally miscalculate something and twice as likely to intentionally miscalculate something-she decided that she needed a cigarette.

_No, dear. You're confusing want with need again. What you **need** is to finish this article so you can lobby the chief for permission to try the jet lavage._

Words could never adequately express how Zelda hated the ever-present inner voice of reason, but even as she ground her teeth against it, she knew it was right. She never should have let herself fall off the wagon. If she hadn't let Dark bait her, she wouldn't be sitting here craving something she didn't need. But, she supposed bitterly, it was only par for the course in terms of her self-control. Witness the previous evening.

A smarter person, a better person, a far wiser person would never have handled things the way she had. In fact, a better person would have told the boy everything as soon as they had met. Certainly, a better person would not have come up with this whole elaborate plan, or, at least, would have tried to be more business-like about it-professional, not personal. Her fundamental mistake had been thinking she could make the whole situation personal.

And again, she was craving something she didn't need.

"You look tense."

The voice made her jerk with surprise. As she looked up to see her coworker Tomas-_Berenbaum MD/PhD,_ a wicked little voice in her head supplied gleefully-hovering over her, she marveled that she'd been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't heard his mind approach. Or perhaps the boys were making the taxophil more potent these days.

"But I suppose Engstrom's little tantrum's enough to do that to anyone. Do you mind if I join you?" he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her. "I can't believe he's making such a fuss about the nurse's union. You'd think he'd be used to dealing with their complaints by now."

"The annual negotiations," Zelda mused. So that was what all of the fuss was about. She wondered if Engstrom had any idea how utterly predictable he was, or if he even cared.

Tomas once again interrupted her train of thought by asking, "Can I get you a refill on your coffee?"

She met his overly solicitous gaze and considered. On the one hand, she didn't want to encourage him. On the other, it wouldn't do to alienate a co-worker. Zelda had been short enough with him in the past that, headache and exhaustion aside, she really ought to be polite now. She compromised by saying, "No," and adding, "Thank you."

"Right, well, I'm not particularly thirsty, either." Leaning forward across the table, he made a show of looking at her copy of the annals and said, "I see you're reading about Faborgan's little experiment with the lavage."

Well, obviously. "I am."

"It seems like a good idea to me. Do you suppose the chief'll let us try it out?"

"I'm marshalling my arguments."

"Good for you!" His eyes took on a conspiratorial gleam that she found somewhat presumptuous. "I wonder if maybe we can arrange for the good doctor to give us a demonstration. That might sway Engstrom a bit."

Zelda wondered if her smile looked as strained as it felt. "I hadn't considered that."

"Then it's a good thing I did. Of course, I did serve my residency under Faborgan-he's a genius, you know-so it's only natural that I would think to contact him personally...after all, we do have lunch every month or so, and did I tell you that he invited me to his celebratory party after he won the Mudora for medicine?"

Yes. "No."

"It was one hell of a shindig. Everyone who was anyone in the field was there, and I spent the entire evening talking with Kasuto-some say he's the greatest geneticist since Deku, you know-and he told me..."

The man kept rambling, and Zelda was trying to formulate a convincing enough excuse to leave when a shadow flickered at the corner of her vision. She had to use her coffee cup to hide her grin as Tomas straightened in his chair and a new voice said, "Geneticist, eh? Damn mad scientists, trying to design a master race."

Zelda hadn't turned around or looked up, but she knew from his tone of voice and the affronted look on Tomas's face what kind of expression Dark must be wearing. "Excuse me?" her fellow surgeon asked.

"You know, mad men in the lab, tinkering with everybody's genes." Dark's hand ran over Zelda's back, tracing a line down her spine as he sat down beside her. "You wacky, wacky scientists."

"Wacky, wacky us," Zelda murmured, almost giddy with a sickening, shameful sense of relief.

Tomas leaned forward in what Zelda supposed was supposed to be a vaguely threatening gesture. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he said.

"No, we haven't," Dark said, and turned to Zelda. "And where were you last night?"

"Out."

"That's a shame; I had something to tell you, but I didn't know where you were."

"I'm sorry, I took my transponder off for the evening. It won't happen again."

On the edge of her vision, Zelda could see Tomas bristle. It amused her. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

Dark looked back at him and smiled the smile that always Zelda shiver with desire. "Yes, there is. She's cheating on me with my twin."

Tomas started, and turned to Zelda with accusing eyes, "I didn't know you were seeing-"

"And I'm wondering," Dark continued over him, "will any of the talk shows take us?"

"You never asked." Even though her coworker had not been able to get his question out, Zelda felt she should answer it anyway.

"All three of us up on stage...think we could get paid for it?"

"Talk shows are so crass," Zelda sniffed. "I'd really rather you wrote a tell-all-memoir."

Dark's grin was fierce and his eyes were alive with good humor. "With color photo insets?"

"Sweet Nayru, no. Black and white is far more classy." She turned to meet Tomas's gaze. "Wouldn't you agree, Tom?"

Her fellow surgeon's eyes darted from Zelda to Dark to Zelda again as he obviously tried to figure out what was going on between the two. He looked, Zelda realized with a sense of satisfaction that she knew was wrong, rather pathetic. It wasn't he fault, she supposed. He was an extremely intelligent and capable man. It was only in comparison that he seemed so small and soft. So dull.

"I would," Dark said, drawing her attention back to him. Leaning forward, he ran a hand up her arm. "Black and white suits you."

A faint beeping sound permeated the air, but Zelda could not bring herself to pay it any heed. She was doing exactly what she had told herself she wouldn't do, but she couldn't help it. This was good, this was right, this was the way it should be; the two of them against the rest of the world. Dark's fingers curled around her shoulder, and she leaned into him, enjoying the mixture of shock and annoyance on her fellow doctor's face as she did so. "You're being paged, Tom," she heard herself say.

Berenbaum rose abruptly, grabbing at his pager. "I have to-I'll be-we'll..." Whatever he said-or tried to say-went utterly ignored as he fled, and Zelda returned her full attention to Dark, who was chuckling softly by her side. "What brings you here?" she asked.

"Whimsy."

"And?"

He shrugged.

Fascinating. "You're in a good mood," she offered, wondering where he would take the conversation.

"That I am."

As he sat back into the chair, grinning at her, she knew that he did not intend to take the conversation anywhere. Very well then, she could play along. It suited her purposes quite well, actually, and would save her a trip later in the day. "I need your GenSyn keycard." Her own was in sixteen little pieces in the back of one of her dresser drawers. She'd tried ripping it up with her bare hands, but once her anger had subsided, she'd realized that scissors would be far more effective.

If he hadn't been smirking, the look in his wide eyes might have led her to believe she'd managed to surprise him. "You're going to tell him about us!" he said, his smirk widening into what would have been a smile of approval on another man. "You devious little girl!"

She supposed she could be evasive about which "he" he meant, but Zelda hated people who were needlessly coy. "Better me than you."

"Now what makes you say that?"

"I'm nicer than you are."

At that, he threw back his head and laughed. Zelda folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to catch his breath. "I didn't say I was nice," she pointed out when he was sufficiently recovered. "I simply said that I am nicer than _you_."

"I've been told that I'm a very friendly young man," he said. "Mostly by myopic little old ladies, but," he continued as he began hunting around in a pocket, "friendly nonetheless." Pulling a small piece of plastic out of the pocket, he held it up for Zelda to see. "You don't think that makes me nice? Doesn't giving you this," and he gestured to the card, "make me nice?"

"By conventional standards, one could consider it a favor."

"And what, pray tell, do I get in return for this favor?"

"You consider yourself conventional?" When he simply grinned and waved the card, she said, "Amusement."

"As good a reason as any, I suppose," he drawled and returned to smirking at her.

If it had been anyone other than him, she would have sighed in exasperation. And even though it was him, she couldn't keep the annoyance out of her voice when she said, "Just give me the card."

He surprised her by tossing it to her without any further antagonism. "So she orders, so it shall be," he said, and added, as she rose to leave, "Now, what do we say?"

Plastering her most poisonously sweet smile on her face, she simpered. "Thank you, Dark." And then she was walking away from him, heels clicking on the tile floor, hand clenched tightly around the keycard in her pocket.

By the time she returned to the CICU, her headache was completely gone. _Finally,_ she thought. _Finally.

* * *

_

Link was ushered into Representative Nabooru's office by a young Gerudo who, for reasons he couldn't quite figure, wouldn't stop glaring at him. He was tempted to glare back, but he didn't want to do anything to hinder his future access to the representative. Instead, he obediently followed her through the maze of staff members' desks, avoiding her unpleasant expression by keeping his attention focused elsewhere. One thing could be said for the Gerudo women: they kept themselves in fantastic shape.

The representative herself was ensconced at a large wooden desk, glaring at a computer monitor from behind a pair of glasses that she removed as soon as Link and his guide entered the room. After waving the staffer away, she rose to her feet and extended her hand to the reporter.

"You're not looking as good as when I saw you last," she said, gesturing towards his bruised face.

Link shrugged. "Ran into someone who didn't particularly like my face."

"Right, and I should see the other guy?" She snorted. "Boys. You lot have your uses, but don't think I don't thank Din nightly that there aren't many of you in the Valley."

"And after I came all this way," Link said, doing his best to look wounded.

She laughed and settled back into her seat. "Which leads me to ask why the hell you're here."

"You made me promise to come visit you."

Nabooru leaned back in her chair and arched a crimson brow. "I did, but if I recall correctly, I started that sentence with, 'If I have something _I_ want leaked,' not, 'If _you_ want something from me.'"

"So I should've called first?"

"Wouldn't that have been the polite thing to do?" She watched him squirm for a second then chuckled. "Ah, I'm just toying with you. That pretty face of yours is welcome any time, even if it's a little banged up. What do you want?"

Link caught himself before he could say, _"A pony"_ and made a mental note to make sure his brain-to-mouth filter remained firmly in place. "First things first," he said instead, fishing his tape recorder out of a coat pocket and setting it on her desk. "Just so you know."

"Oh, it's going to be one of those, is it?"

Link shrugged. It was up to her, ultimately. "I can always turn it off when you want to go off the record."

"Why don't we turn it on when I want to go on the record?" At his nod, she continued, "So tell me. What is it you need to know?"

Relieved that he'd even gotten this far, Link asked, "What would you say if I told you that Ganondorf Dragmire is funding the GFF?"

She let out a low whistle. "Cut right to the chase, don't you?"

"I'd tell you I flunked my etiquette courses, but that would be a lie since I never took any. What would you say?"

"I would say that I have no comment at this time," she said with a pointed look at the tape recorder. "It's not the place of a member of the House to indulge in wild speculation."

"We're off the record," he reminded her.

"I'd say I want to know what brings this accusation about."

"Are you surprised to hear it?"

"After twenty years in politics and over forty of simply being Gerudo, very little surprises me...especially not newspapers throwing around crazy accusations in hopes that it'll increase their readership."

Link supposed he should have expected the bitterness that had crept into her voice. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Kid, I hardly even know you."

"Then I guess I can only assure you that I'm not."

"No, maybe you're not." Her posture relaxed slightly, and amused cynicism began to replace the bitterness in her eyes. "Maybe you're just looking for the next award-winning story."

There was little he could do to convince her of his sincerity beyond holding her gaze as steadily as posisble as he said, "Maybe I think that if this is true, Dragmire needs to be stopped."

"And, of course, this has nothing to do with that need to destroy public figures that you press types have."

Now it was his turn to look offended. "What?"

"Nakoron."

"That wasn't me."

"It was your paper."

"Then consider this the Trib's attempt to do right."

She let out a bark of laughter. "And how do you figure that, kid? You're going to make right by publishing rumors about Dragmire?"

"I wouldn't be here it if we were going to run with rumors."

"Okay, fine. I'll accept that for the time being. Now let me ask you: how did you get this crazy idea?"

"I have a source."

Amusement shone in her golden eyes. "Oh, right. My, I wonder _who_ this source could possibly be."

"Let's leave it at wondering."

"I think we should. So," she leaned back into her chair and steepled her fingers. "You've got a mysterious shadow person feeding you a line about Dragmire funneling money to a terrorist organization, and you decide to come to me about it. Why?"

Flattery was best dispensed with an air of nonchalance. He shrugged. "You're a powerful woman. You know what's going on in the capital."

"And?"

"And when we talked last, you sounded a little less than enthused about certain personages."

She was silent for a moment, staring at him speculatively, and Link has the disorienting thought that maybe he'd guessed wrong. But then she chuckled. "I like you, kid. You've got moxie."

"That's me, Link Kokirin, Boy Reporter."

Much to his dismay, she didn't laugh again, but her expression relaxed further, and she nodded. "All right. I'll tell you what I'll do, and I'll tell you what I won't do. I won't be an accessory to dragging my people's reputation down into the dirt any more. I don't like the GFF, but I don't particularly like the Hylian hegemony in this country, so I won't belittle the GFF's opinions."

"But if Dragmire is using them-"

"Dragmire's Gerudo, too, kid. But I don't like it when innocent people die, and I'll help anyone who wants to keep that from happening. _If_ it's happening. So I'll ask around for you."

"You don't have anything to contribute at this time?"

"Not at this time. But I'll ask," she repeated. Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Link nodded, thanked her, and got up to leave. Nabooru waited until he had reached the door before saying, "Kid. Be careful. You're playing with fire here."

Link shrugged, a little flattered and a little embarrassed at the earnestness in her gaze. "I'm okay."

"Sure, that's why you're all beat up."

"It was a learning experience; next time, I'll bring..." He thought for a second, and then had to laugh somewhat ruefully at the first thing that came to mind. "I'll bring a cattle prod."

Nabooru made a skeptical noise, but said no more as Link continued on his way out. He was halfway through the door when he paused, turned, and asked, "Have you heard about those mutant dog-man rumors?"

"I think you're starting to push your luck, kid." Fixing him with slightly bemused stare, she added, "Remember, you don't want me to think you're crazy."

"Right. Forget I said anything about it." He tossed her a salute, which she acknowledged with a chuckle, and strode out. The girl who'd escorted him in looked up briefly to glare at him again as he walked out, and he saluted her, too, just to piss her off.

At least, he thought as he waited in the hallway for the elevator, the representative hadn't thrown him out without a second thought. At least she had said she would consider helping him. Link could comfort himself with that much. It would have been nice if she had been willing to do more, but he was getting only as much as he had expected. Besides, hadn't Link himself had problems accepting the story when Zelda had first offered it to him? Couple the story's sensationalism with Nabooru's understandable wariness against accusations thrown at her fellow Gerudo, it would have been surprising if she hadn't thought him crazy.

He never should have brought up the dog-men.

The elevator arrived with a cheerful _ding_, and he stepped into it, slamming his hand against the button for the lobby in frustration.

Trouble was, he didn't want to think he was crazy, either.


	7. Chapter Six

**Title:** Battleflag Feedback To:  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R.  
**Summary**: A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path as he learns that we are not who we are.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters/settings in this fic that I didn't make up don't belong to me. If Nintendo cracks down on fanfic, I'll delete this sucker faster than their lawyers can say, "Restraining Order." Never let it be said that I don't bow to corporate supremacy.  
**Warning:** Check your senses of decency and artistic integrity at the door. This one ain't for anything but cheap thrills.

**Chapter Six**

It was late evening before Zelda made it to the GenSyn complex, and the parking lot behind the building was almost deserted. For several moments after killing the engine, she sat in her car, staring at the lab until the chill outside began to sink into her bones and she was ready to step out into the early dark of the winter night.

The first thing she noticed upon entering the building was how little it had changed in the years since she had last set foot in it. The blue cast of the walls, the stunning brightness of the lights, the scent of ethanol and methane in the air-she might as well be fifteen again and ready to make her own mark in the world of genetic engineering. She closed her eyes and breathed it all in. For years, this had been all she wanted. This had been her dream.

But dreams were for children, and she was an adult. She knew better, now. She wanted no more part of this place.

Even still, in her weaker moments, she found herself wondering how far she could have gone, how brightly she would have outshone the last master of these halls. Deku had been a genius, true, but Zelda had been born to this. She would have been the best. Deku himself had seen to that.

It was this reminder that made her square her shoulders and march onward. The lab was more deserted that the parking lot had been-she could see no sign of life, and the only sound was the echo of her heels striking the vinyl floor. It was better than she could have hoped; she would be able to conduct her business unimpeded.

Her ultimate destination was well within the building, back in the most secure research wing. Dark's keycard would give her access to any area of the complex, all while recording his passage. Of course, she would appear on the security cameras, but by the time anyone thought to question her presence-an unlikely event, as everyone here ought to know who she was-she would have the files she needed and be long gone. What happened then was up to Link.

The empty corridor wound on and on, and in a sudden and rare fit on whimsy, she wondered if this was what it would be like to be the sole survivor of an apocalyptic event. But what kind, she wondered. Plague? Famine? Fire? Nuclear winter?

So consumed was she with her visions of destruction and the opportunities a world empty of everyday Hylian annoyances would present that she almost walked right into the pretty blonde woman bent over a water fountain.

Surprise made Zelda rock back on her heels. Recognition made her blurt, "Fado!"

Fado blurted back, "Zelda?" Then she began to smile. "It is you! Din's breath, it's been, what, fifiteen? Sixteen years?"

The woman's delight was infectious, and Zelda couldn't help but smile back as she replied, "Fifteen, I think. That internship must have worked out for you."

"More than you can imagine! The experience I got that summer helped me get into school, then once I had my degree, I was able to come back here and work. Just tech stuff," and here Fado's smile became more rueful. "I never was cut out for directing my own research."

"You had a wonderful eye for detail," Zelda said. "That would make you an invaluable technician." Unable to prevent memories of that long ago summer from flooding back, Zelda suddenly remembered where Fado had grown up. "Fado, did you know a Saria Kokirin?"

The woman laughed. "Saria! Yes, we lived on the same street when we were kids-we went though school together. I used to have the biggest crush on her brother," she added with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "I think he's some sort of writer or something now."

"A reporter."

"Really?" Fado laughed again. "I guess it makes sense. Yeah, I know Saria. I don't see much of her-the last time we got together was business, actually. She wanted to educate some of her people on genetics-you know, that it's not all about making radioactive carrots to kill off poor Zora children and all that." She paused and frowned. "Bad metaphor. Not a metaphor. You know."

"I know," Zelda said, fighting an absurd urge to pat the girl on the head.

"How do you know Saria and Link? I know Saria's been pretty politically active...has she met with your father?"

It was possible, though Saria didn't represent the kind of lobbying interests the Judge took seriously. "I met Link just recently at a fund raiser for the hospital." And then, realizing that he would want verification from someone he could trust, she said, "He may be contacting you soon for confirmation of some data. Would you do me a favor and be sure not to mention it to anyone around here?"

Fado laughed. "Sure, no problem. Just as long as he's not asking about anything illegal…though I guess even then I wouldn't say anything. He's awfully handsome."

Yes, of course. At this piece of obvious information, Zelda suddenly grew weary of the entire conversation. "Thank you. I should let you get back to work."

"Oh, work! You know, we've been working on using button mushrooms as transgenic platforms for protein production, and it's pretty exciting how-"

"I'll look forward to reading the journal article. I'm sorry, but I need to go."

"Oh, oh. Of course. I'm sorry-it was good to see you!"

"And you." As she walked away, Zelda reflected that it had, in fact, been good to see Fado. How odd.

Her progress through the building continued, her attention being drawn every now and then to those few labs whose lights were still on. Zelda couldn't help but wonder what the people inside might be working on. _Mushroom bioplatforms_, she mused. _What would make mushrooms a better platform than cell culture? Cost? It would have to be cost. But how could you possibly equal the volume-_ Abruptly, she shook her head to clear it, and a voice in her head that sounded exactly like her father's demanded,_ "Focus."_ Yes, Daddy dearest, she would focus. She would focus on her studies, she would focus on her appearance, and, eventually, she would focus on letting him know how much she hated him. It galled her to think that at the heart of her plans was no motivation more grandiose than a temper tantrum, but she would learn to live with the embarrassment.

GenSyn was her father's true baby, her father's and Deku's and Dragmire's. The Judge and Dragmire would provide the funding and any necessary political cover, while Deku devoted himself to the company's initial genome mapping project. Dragmire had always insisted that the original goal had been to get out ahead in the biotech revolution, which Zelda was willing to accept. Unlike the others, Dragmire had never bothered to lie to her. Besides, while Deku may have dreamed of what became his ultimate accomplishment, Dragmire probably wouldn't have considered it possible, and the Judge simply lacked the imagination.

After Deku's death, the remaining two founders had consolidated the board of directors and steered the company back into more conventional projects. If only Zelda had been paying attention, if only she hadn't been arrogant enough to think that without a genius like Deku-_or yourself?_-the kind of work that had produced her was over. It seemed she had seriously underestimated Dragmire's ambition, which was funny, because it was one of the traits she'd always admired about him. Although, if the police reports were to be believed, the current work was a shoddy mess. Boogeymen? Honestly.

_That's what happens when you have second-rate minds at the helm._

And how on earth were they letting these freaks of nature get loose into the populace? Was it intentional? Were they the distraction from Dragmire's GFF activities, or was it the other way around? It frustrated her to have more questions than answers.

There was one thing she knew for certain: the GFF activities were the weak point. If she could help Link dig up the requisite evidence, he could ruin Dragmire for good, effectively halting the GenSyn work. It also had the added benefit of preventing the deaths of more innocents.

Maybe there was another reason for all of this besides her Daddy issues, after all.

Somewhere, somehow, Dark was aware of this last thought and was laughing at her. That was one thing she wouldn't have to learn to live with-she'd been living with it far too long.

When at last she reached the office, Dark's keycard worked just as she had assumed it would. After all, Dragmire's little errand boy had to have free reign of the place. The computer security was likewise easy to bypass, though Zelda supposed that her ability to sense Dragmire's mind gave her an unfair advantage in guessing his the structure of his passwords. It was a shame she would never be able to infiltrate his home or office as easily as GenSyn. It would save them all a lot of time and effort, but she would just have to live with the realities of the situation.

_"But if the quest were easy, it wouldn't be any fun."_ Disturbingly, Zelda couldn't tell if the voice that ran through her head was Dark's or Link's.

She shook her head to clear it of all of the people who seemed to have taken up residence in there this evening, and set about trying to call up any information related to the GFF. She tried. She found nothing.

Well, what had she expected? That Dragmire would be using the GenSyn system for nefarious deeds unrelated to the company? He was a fastidious man; he wouldn't be mixing one crime with another. She shut the computer down, annoyed but not worried.

There was still something she could give him from this place.

* * *

Kafei was riding out the end of an online auction for a set of limited-edition titanium golf clubs when she walked into the bullpen. He had just upped his bid to 800 rupees in an attempt to lock out the annoyingly persistent kikikeaton401 when the elevator dinged, he looked up, and he saw her. And he knew.

He _knew._

The impeccably tailored suit, the carefully careless-seeming coiffure, the confidence in the tilt of her head and the steadiness of her stride-this was the kind of female that had made Anju's life hell in high school, the kind that hadn't considered Kafei worthy of consideration. The kind that Link had routinely made an ass of himself over. Would make an ass of himself over. Unless, of course, Kafei did something about it. He'd stood wincing on the sidelines for too long, he decided in that moment. It was time to take a stand.

He got to his feet as she arrived at his desk, threw his shoulders back, and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Kafei Dotour?"

"Yes." He would smile. He would take her hand, shake it firmly, and run interference with a smile on his face. He was, after all, a very pleasant person. "Can I help you?"

"I have something for Link. Is he in?"

It was the first-name presumption that made Kafei respond with, simply, "It's eight o' clock at night."

Her lips twisted with what Kafei thought was amusement, though her tone didn't change. "And yet, you and I are here."

"Can I _help_ you?"

"I have something for him." At Kafei's arched brow, she smiled, a sharp flash of teeth in the fluorescent light. "Information."

Oh, of course. The cold but stunning female with information-no doubt "the scoop" Link had been crowing about-it was right out of Link's terrible novel. _Din damn it, why do you have to be so predictable?_ he silently asked his absent friend. "If you want, you can leave it with me, and I'll make sure he gets it."

"Thank you, but I would rather give it to him directly. I'm sure understand."

Yeah, sure, he understood. She was the femme fatale. Link had no doubt cast himself in the hardboiled hero's role, getting himself beaten up in the name of justice outside of the law and other associated nonsense. The only question left was where Kafei fit in. Was he the dependable sidekick or the guy in the audience yelling advice at the screen?

The woman had taken advantage of his silence to extend a perfectly manicured hand. "I'm sorry, I've been rude. My name is Zelda Harkinian."

At this, Kafei had to bite back a bitter laugh. Instead, he indulged himself in a fantasy of his beating Link upside the head with a nine iron as he took her hand, shook it, and chose his role. "Listen, Link's a good friend of mine. What exactly is he getting into here?"

"And again, I must apologize, because I don't believe it's any of your business."

That was too much. Kafei's patience, strained to the max, finally snapped. "Actually, Miss Harkinian, I think is my business when strange people show up in my office late at night. I think it's my business when people I know start acting funny." The rational part of his brain was warning him that he was getting a little too heated, but by now he had a full head of steam built up and wasn't about to stop. "And I definitely think it's my business when my best friend goes to meet a source and ends up getting the shit beat out of him!"

Instead of reacting to his diatribe with the the derision he expected, she merely regarded him quietly. "You're a good friend, Kafei Dotour."

"Yeah, I am."

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. The tableau was broken by a sudden, jarring beep from Kafei's computer. The woman's gaze slid to the monitor, which was still displaying the auction page. When she looked back at him, a hint of mockery had returned to her eyes. "I think you won."

As he watched her walked away, Kafei wondered.

* * *

Blissfully unaware that he had been the subject of several conversations over the past few hours, Link spent the bulk of the evening in Hyrule's Parliamentary Library. Built several centuries prior and tasked with the mission of preserving Hyrule's collective knowledge and creativity for all generations, the Library was an information treasure trove for anyone interested in the nation's history.

It was also, secretly, one of Link's favorite places in the entire country.

That he loved its purpose went without saying. As an unabashed true believer in free access to knowledge, he loved browsing the vast catalogs for all things both important and trivial. As an equally unabashed appreciator of beautiful things, he loved simply admiring the vast collection of art scattered throughout its halls and integrated into the architecture. He was especially fond of the statues in the main reading room that represented each of the great disciplines of intellectual inquiry. Folklore and the Library's tour guides both claimed that each statue's face was carved in the likeness of a great figure from Hyrule's distant past. When they had been kids on class tours, Saria had teased Link that the face of Philosophy looked just like his, but he supposed that was due more to his inability to understand the subject than any actual resemblance. Link himself had always found the woman representing Law strikingly beautiful. He had also found that noting a similarity between that particular face and any of the comely yet scholarly girls who were likely to be in the Library was an excellent way to start a conversation. It was always stretching the truth, of course, but it usually made the young lady happy, and since happy people made him happy, everyone was a winner.

This evening's mission left him little time to enjoy the sculpture, though it occurred to him as he strolled through the reading room that Lady Law looked a little like Zelda.

Tonight, Link's destination was the computer room to sort through two decades' worth of parliamentary records regarding any vote, speech, or other official activity undertaken by Ganondorf Dragmire. As he dropped into a chair at one of the terminals, he opened his favorite notebook and lucky pen, ready to document any good finds. Two hours later, his eyes were feeling overexposed, his neck was starting to cramp, and his damn notebook was still as empty as it had been when he'd sat down.

"Well, hell," he muttered.

Someone cleared her throat loudly, and Link turned to see an older woman glaring at him from a nearby terminal. "Sorry," he said with his most apologetic smile.

She merely frowned and put a finger to her lips.

"'Sorry,'" he mouthed at her, then returned to glaring at the computer screen.

_Well, hell._ In his thirty years of public service, Dragmire had done nothing particularly extraordinary. While that explained his longevity in political life, it didn't provide any obvious clues as to any sympathies for the Gerudo Freedom Front. It seemed Link would have to actually work to drum up some evidence.

Another "Shh!" interrupted his thoughts, and Link abruptly realized he had been drumming his fingers on the keyboard. He smiled back at the disgruntled woman, but again, she proved immune to his charm. The young Gerudo woman who was walking by, however, caught his eye and winked. As she passed, a crumpled-up piece of paper fluttered out of her fingers and landed precisely beside Link's chair.

Bemused, Link unfolded the paper. On it, the girl had written, "Outside, r. alley."

As propositions went, this was one was rather abrupt. Then again, a lot of weird things had been happening to him lately, so it was entirely possible something else would happen "outside." Link supposed his misadventure at the warehouse ought to teach him the danger of accepting cryptic invitations, but he had never been a particularly good student. Besides, while life had gotten weirder lately, it had also gotten more interesting.

_So, why not?_ A voice that sounded an awful lot like Kafei's started spouting a whole of list of reasons why not, but Link was used to ignoring Kafei's good sense. _Someone has to be the adventurous one in this relationship, otherwise we'd never do anything fun._

He gathered his notebook and lucky pen and headed out of the Library.

The winter evening was dark and quiet, even here in the heart of the city. As Link trotted down the Library's marble steps, the only vehicles he could see on the road were taxis and limousines, the latter no doubt ferrying various officials between the Parliamentary buildings that made up the nearby blocks. Either Hyrule's government was locked up in offices working late, or it was home for the night.

"Right alley," Link muttered out loud when he reached the sidewalk, the words steaming in the cold air. He looked around, and sure enough, off to his right was an alley for delivery trucks serving the Library. There were several other nearby candidates, but he decided he might as well start with the closest one and make his way up the street, if necessary.

It turned out not to be necessary, as he rounded the corner and was promptly grabbed from behind and slammed into Library's south wall. _Oh, of course,_ he thought, more annoyed than upset. If meeting a mutant deranged version of himself in a warehouse was the stupidest thing that had ever happened to him, this had to be the stupidest thing he'd ever done to himself.

So far.

Here he was, arm twisted behind his back, face pressed up against limestone, and yet he was still dumb enough to try to ask, "What-" before the cool touch of metal at the back of his neck stopped him.

"Drop it," his unseen assailant hissed.

"Drop what?" Link asked, though his question was somewhat muffled by the limestone wall in his face.

"Whatever she gives you from GenSyn, the data's bad. Drop it."

"GenSyn?" Turning his head to be more intelligible, Link hoped his incredulity was evident. "The _biotech_ company?"

The man's grip relaxed slightly, as if this wasn't the reaction he had been expecting, and Link seized his chance to top himself in the stupidity category. He ripped his left arm free, and blindly swung backwards with his right. It was a pleasant surprise when his elbow actually made contact, and the stranger staggered backwards. Spinning around, Link kicked the man in the shins, sending him flat on his back. It wasn't as graceful as any of the moves in the martial arts movies he and his friends had watched in college, but it worked.

The gun slid across the pavement, and Link was half a step ahead of his assailant in diving for it. Fortunately, he reached it first, and spun around to train it on the man-a nondescript, middle-aged Hylian-and hoped it wasn't obvious that he had never held a gun before in his life. Still, he supposed simply having it gave him enough of an upper hand to start asking some questions, the first of which was, "What's this about GenSyn data?"

The man just glared at him.

Conducting an interview while holding the subject at gunpoint was probably against the journalistic code of ethics-Link couldn't remember any mention of deadly force, but he was pretty sure that it would be frowned upon, but then, he couldn't recall having ever sworn to any professional code of ethics to begin with-but the man had threatened to kill him. Besides, the fellow hardly looked as if he feared for his life. So why, then, Link wondered, did he feel a bit dirty? "So," he said, "care to tell me your name? Business? Anything?"

Link got what he expected: nothing.

Now what? He couldn't hold a gun on this man all night. "All right, fine. You'll have to tell the cops when they get here." Transferring the gun to his right hand, he fished his cell phone out his pocket with his left. "Don't move," he added as he began to dial and hoped that his captive wouldn't realize that, were he to fire, Link had about a Zora's chance in Gerudo Valley of actually hitting him.

Leveling a gun at a man turned out to be harder work than one would assume, and by the time Link heard the sound of sirens rise in the distance, his injured shoulder was aching. When he heard the cruiser pull up and the door open, it was all he could do not to sigh in relief.

"Police!" a female voice barked from behind him. "Drop the weapon; hands where I can see them."

Link did as he was told, so grateful for the arrival of the cavalry that he didn't realize that the cavalry was about to take him into custody until she cuffed him. Then he felt obliged to object. "He's the one who attacked me."

"Yeah, but you're the one with the gun."

He had to admit, she had a point. And fortunately, another officer had appeared and was in the process of cuffing Link's assailant.

"All right," the officer said when she finished, "turn around."

Link did as told, and was surprised to see the officer was Sheikah. Not many Sheikah bothered leaving Kakariko these days. Link felt, however, that now was not the best time to ask her why she had. What he asked instead was, "What about the guy who tried to kill me?"

"Don't worry about him; Auru'll take care of him," she said as she steered him towards her cruiser. "Why do you think he wanted to kill you, anyway?"

"Traumatic childhood?" When the cop looked totally unimpressed with his rather sorry attempt at humor, Link sighed and said, "Listen, all I know is I came out into the alley and he jumped me."

"And you were wandering around in dark alleys because...?"

"I was looking for someone." That much was true.

"Uh-huh. And who would this someone be?

"A friend." That wasn't. But the less he had to explain, the better.

"A friend. The Great Fairy of the Lower Docks, no doubt."

"You're really not into being the friendly neighborhood policeman, are you?"

"Policewoman," she said, and shoved him into the backseat.

Fortunately, while the officer might not have been the friendly neighborhood policewoman, she turned out to be thoroughly professional. And, after all of the appropriate forms had been filled out in triplicate and the mystery man's fingerprints had been run, Link was released into the custody of the only responsible adult willing to lay claim to him.

"Thanks, man," he said as Kafei pulled up in front of the station in his car and rolled down the passenger side window.

"Why are you in jail?"

"I'm not _in_ jail," Link pointed out as he pulled open the passenger door. "I was, but I'm not now."

Kafei sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine. Why _were_ you in jail?"

"Impersonating a police officer." As Kafei pulled away from the curb, Link's attention was grabbed by the wailing female voice coming from the car's speaker system. "What is this music?"

"It's Akura, that Zora woman Anju likes so much. Seriously, you want to explain why I'm picking you up after ten-"

"You listen to this girly shit much longer, Kafei, you'll start ovulating."

Pushed beyond the bounds of his patience for the second time in one night, Kafei shouted, "Why were you in jail?"

"Solicitation. You really need to relax."

There was a long silence in which Link could practically hear Kafei counting to ten in his head. When the silence extended beyond ten seconds, Link began to wonder if this time his friend needed to get to twenty. After a full minute, Link began to feel a little of that guilt that always accompanied pushing Kafei too far. "Hey," he said, "listen, I'm-"

"I met her tonight."

Thrown more by Kafei's utterly calm tone than his words, Link asked, "Met who?"

"Her. Zelda Harkinian. She came by the office looking for you."

"Really?" Link probably could have been more eloquent, but the idea of Kafei and Zelda in the same room made him nervous for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Yeah, she had some papers she wanted to give you. She wouldn't leave them with me."

"Really?"

"Really." When Link looked over at his friend, he could see him studying the road ahead of him intently, obviously avoiding eye contact.

Link settled back into the seat, watching the city lights slide by through the windows, trying to decide which of his questions to ask first. _"Did she say what it was about?" "Did she say she'd be in touch?" "Isn't she gorgeous?"_ But he could guess the answers to the first two, and he was getting the feeling the answer to the third would be accompanied by some editorializing.

"Her mother went crazy you know."

Of all the possible directions Link had thought the conversation would take, this was the last one he would have guessed. "Really?"

Kafei snorted. "Did you get a little brain damage along with your adventures tonight? Yeah, really. You remember when we were kids and it was all over the news, right? The tabloids went nuts with the whole 'Harkinian's Wife Abducted by Aliens!' angle."

"If you thought I remembered it so vividly, why'd you think you had to remind me of it?"

"Because crazy runs in some families."

Now it was Link's turn to wonder if he hadn't suffered a little brain damage, because he wasn't seeing the connection-oh. Stunned, he glared at Kafei. "You think Zelda's crazy?"

Kafei sighed. "I'm just saying, you don't necessarily know what's going on. Before you start swallowing everything she feeds you, you might want to take a moment to consider the source."

For a moment, Link couldn't decide whether he was more insulted by the slight to his intelligence or Kafei's uncharacteristically uncharitable attitude towards someone he barely knew. Unable to make up his mind, he instead fell back on an old, familiar crutch. "Don't worry, she's not asking me to publish anything about her adventures riding with the aliens in their bright, shining ball of light. That's strictly between us."

"Link-"

"She calls them 'Them.'"

"Link, can you please be serious for moment?"

"You're going to have to turn off this crazy music, first. I can't be serious and be told to feel the time running out on my stopwatch of love, or whatever she's so upset about."

"Fine," Kafei snapped, stabbing at the radio's power button. The Zora woman's caterwauling silenced, Kafei continued, "Just listen to me, all right? All I'm trying to say is that you need to be careful. This is a powerful family you're dealing with, and if I've learned anything in my job, it's that politicians-really powerful politicians-are the ones that get involved in the seediest, most insane stuff. Remember what I told you once about the statistics that said politicians were more likely to murder prostitutes than people in any other profession? You just don't know with these people."

"Well, she's a thoracic surgeon, not a politician, and I'm not a hooker, so we should be okay."

Kafei sighed again, but when Link glanced at him, he could see his friend fighting to hide a smile.

They rode the rest of the way back to Link's apartment building in silence. After waving good-bye, Link wandered into the building, mulling over what little information he had been able to gather at the library and how it might be connected to the man who'd tried to jump him. Who knew what he was working on? Representative Nabooru had an impeccable reputation for honesty. In fact, the only group that had ever made any negative comments about her were her political opponents, and even they tended to (reluctantly, of course) admit that her conduct in her official role was above reproach. If she had a problem with what Link was doing, she would have simply told him, not sent a goon after him. Zelda, of course, knew. She certainly wouldn't have sent someone to rough him up for doing what she had asked him to do, though, unless she was as insane as Kafei thought she might be. The more likely possibility was that she had let the wrong information slip to the wrong person, and now Dragmire's thugs were on to him.

But that explanation didn't sit well with Link, either. Zelda was too smart to give him up, and, for whatever reason, he trusted her. Kafei would no doubt say that the reason was because Link was an irrational moron, but even if that was true, it didn't change anything. He trusted her.

So, leave aside the question of why and move on to the who. That, in turn, raised another why: Why would a Hylian-a Hylian man, at that-be doing the GFF's dirty work? Or any work? But if there wasn't a connection, he wondered as he unlocked his apartment door, then why had the message sent Link there?

His fingers stilled on the doorknob. _That would depend on who sent the message._

The possibility-_probability?_-that his evil twin, that creature with his face, might be toying with him so consumed his thoughts that he almost missed the stack of manila folders sitting on top of his kitchen table. As he walked over to the table, reaching out for the folder on the top of the pile, he also wondered, _And why the hell was he talking about GenSyn?_


	8. Chapter Seven

**Title:** Battleflag  
**Feedback To:**  
**Classification:** AU, story.  
**Rating:** R.  
**Summary:** A chance encounter sends a reporter's life down an unexpected path.  
**Note:** It's not a chapter-sized chapter, but it needed to be on its own.

**Chapter Seven**

The problem was, Link ultimately decided, that he had no idea how to react. It wasn't that he was completely baffled-well, okay, the science was a little opaque-so much as he lacked any sort of reference to guide him in a situation like this. Perhaps if he had survived a plane crash or been one of the victims of the Death Mountain eruption, he would know how to respond.

Shock, anger, fear...what was the appropriate reaction to a massive paradigm shift? Because right now, he was just mildly bewildered.

_You woke up one morning an ordinary guy, you went to bed with a stack of data proving you're not. Mom always said you were special; who knew she was right?_

Actually, he had gone to bed that night confused by the strings of As, Ts, Cs, and Gs and convinced that he had a very dedicated, lifelong stalker. It wasn't until after he had gotten Saria's friend Fado to walk him through select-_very_ select-portions of the data that he had begun to recognize what it meant. Cue paradigm shift.

And here he had thought meeting his evil twin had been bizarre.

He had been wrong. Meeting his evil twin didn't just pale in the light of this new information, it made perfect sense.

_"Who are you?"_

So here he was, sitting in his apartment, staring blindly out the window, at a total loss for what to think or feel or do. Zelda had left a note with her phone number and a terse "Call me" on the top of the pile. He supposed he would, once he figured out what the hell was supposed to happen next. There had been plenty of data on her, too.

_"What are you?"_

_Well_, Link thought, _now I know._


End file.
